A    YEAR   WITH    A    WHALER 


"Cuttiiier  Out"   A   Whale 


A  YEAR  WITH  A 
WHALER 


BY 

WALTER  NOBLE  BURNS 


Illustrated  with  Photographs 


4G124 

NEW  YORK 

OUTING   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

MCMXIII 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
OUTING    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


X 


CONTEXTS 


i 
r 

V) 


CHAPTER 

I.  The  Lure  of  the  Outfitter 
II.  The  Men  of  the  "Alexander' 
III.   Why  We   Don't   Desert 
IV.   Turtles  and   Porpoises 

V.   The  A.  B,  C  of  Whales 
VI.   The    Night    King 
VI T.   Dreams  of   Liberty     . 
VI I  L   Gabriel's   Little    Drama 

IX.   Through  the   Roaring  Forties 

X.   In   the   Ice 

XI.   Cross  Country  Whaling 
XII.   Cutting   In  and  Trying  Out 
XIII.    Shaking  Hands  with   Siberia 
X IV.    Moonshine  and  Hygiene 

XV.    News  From    Home 
XVI.   Slim  Goes  on  Strike 
XVII.    Into   the    Arctic 
XVIII.   Blubber   and  Song 


page 
II 

21 

33 

46 

59 

71 

83 

95 

107 

118 

128 

137 

1  19 

162 

171 

182 

"191 

198 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  A  Narrow  Pinch 210 

XX.  A  Race  and  a  Race  Horse 219 

XXI.  Bears  for  a  Change 230 

XXII.  The  Stranded  Whale 239 

XXIII.  And  So— Home 247 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Cutting  Out  "  a  Whale Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

In  Bowhead  Waters 16 

When  Whaling  is  an  Easy  Job -10 

Waiting  for  the  Whale  to  Breach 72 

Unalaska 112 

Waiting  for  the  Floes  to  Open .120 

"  Trying  Out  " 14-4 

Callers  From  Asia 152 

Peter's  Sweetheart 160 

Eskimos  Summer  Hut  at  St.   Lawrence  Bay   .       .       .  168 

At  the  Gateway  to  the  Arctic 176 

Hoisting  the   Blubber  Aboard 181 

Our  Guests  Coming  Aboard  in   St.    Lawrence   Bay    .  192 

The  Lip  of  a  Bowhead  Whale 208 

A   Close   Call    Off   Herald    Island 216 

Skin    Boat   of   the   Siberian    Eskimos 2  10 


A    YEAR   WITH    A    WHALER 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  OUTFITTER  13 

A  young  working  man  in  overalls  and  flannel 
shirt  came  in  later  in  the  day  and  applied  to  go 
on  the  voyage.  He  qualified  as  a  green  hand. 
But  no  spirit  of  adventure  had  brought  him  to 
Levy's.  A  whaling  voyage  appealed  to  his 
canny  mind  as  a  business  proposition. 

'  What  can  we  make?"  he  asked  the  runner. 

"  If  your  ship  is  lucky,"  replied  the  runner, 
"  you  ought  to  clean  up  a  pile  of  money.  You'll 
ship  on  the  190th  lay.  Know  what  a  lay  is?  It's 
your  per  cent,  of  the  profits  of  the  voyage.  Say 
your  ship  catches  four  whales.  She  ought  to 
catch  a  dozen  if  she  has  good  luck.  But  say  she 
catches  four.  Her  cargo  in  oil  and  bone  will  be 
worth  about  $50,000.  Your  share  will  amount 
to  something  like  $200,  and  you'll  get  it  in  a 
lump  sum  when  you  get  back." 

This  was  "  bunk  talk  " — a  "  springe  to  catch 
woodcock " — but  we  did  not  know  it.  That 
fluent  and  plausible  man  took  pencil  and  paper 
and  showed  us  just  how  it  would  all  work  out. 
It  was  reserved  for  us  poor  greenhorns  to  learn 
later  on  that  sailors  of  whaling  ships  usually  are 
paid  off  at  the  end  of  a  voyage  with  "  one  big 


14       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

iron  dollar."  This  fact  being  discreetly  with- 
held from  us,  our  illusions  were  not  disturbed. 

The  fact  is  the  "  lay  "  means  nothing  to  sail- 
ors on  a  whaler.  It  is  merely  a  lure  for  the  un- 
sophisticated. It  might  as  well  be  the  1000th 
lay  as  the  190th,  for  all  the  poor  devil  of  a  sailor 
gets.  The  explanation  is  simple.  The  men 
start  the  voyage  with  an  insufficient  supply  of 
clothing.  By  the  time  the  vessel  strikes  cold 
weather  their  clothes  are  worn  out  and  it  is  a 
case  of  buy  clothes  from  the  ship's  slop-chest  at 
the  captain's  own  prices  or  freeze.  As  a  conse- 
quence, the  men  come  back  to  port  with  expense 
accounts  standing  against  them  which  wipe  out 
all  possible  profits.  This  has  become  so  defi- 
nitely a  part  of  whaling  custom  that  no  sailor 
ever  thinks  of  fighting  against  it,  and  it  prob- 
ably would  do  him  no  good  if  he  did.  As  a  fore- 
castle hand's  pay  the  "  big  iron  dollar "  is  a 
whaling  tradition  and  as  fixed  and  inevitable  as 
fate. 

The  outfitter  who  owned  the  store  did  not 
conduct  a  sailor's  boarding  house,  so  we  were  put 
up   at   a   cheap  hotel   on   Pacific  street.     After 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  OUTFITTER  15 

supper,  my  new  friend  took  me  for  a  visit  to 
the  home  of  his  uncle  in  the  Tar  Flats  region. 
A  rough,  kindly  old  laboring  man  was  this  uncle 
who  sat  in  his  snug  parlor  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
during  our  stay,  sent  one  of  the  children  to  the 
corner  for  a  growler  of  beer,  and  told  us  bluntly 
we  were  idiots  to  think  of  shipping  on  a  whaling 
voyage.  We  laughed  at  his  warning — we  were 
going  and  that's  all  there  was  to  it.  The  old 
fellow's  pretty  daughters  played  the  piano  and 
sang  for  us,  and  my  last  evening  on  shore  passed 
pleasantly  enough.  When  it  came  time  to  say 
good-bye,  the  uncle  prevailed  on  my  friend  to 
stay  all  night  on  the  plea  that  he  had  some  ur- 
gent matters  to  talk  over,  and  I  went  back  alone 
to  my  dingy  hotel  on  the  Barbary  Coast. 

I  was  awakened  suddenly  out  of  a  sound 
sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  My  friend 
stood  beside  my  bed  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his 
hand. 

"  Get  up  and  come  with  me,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
go  whaling.  My  uncle  has  told  me  all  about  it. 
He  knows.  You'll  be  treated  like  a  dog  aboard, 
fed  on  rotten  grub,  and  if  von  don't  die  under 


16       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

the  hard  knocks  or  freeze  to  death  in  the  Arctic 
Ocean,  you  won't  get  a  penny  when  you  get 
back.  Don't  be  a  fool.  Take  my  advice  and 
give  that  runner  the  slip.  If  you  go,  you'll  re- 
gret it  to  the  last  day  of  your  life." 

In  the  yellow  glare  of  the  candle,  the  young 
man  seemed  not  unlike  an  apparition  and  he  de- 
livered his  message  of  warning  with  prophetic  so- 
lemnity and  impressiveness.  But  my  mind  was 
made  up. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go,"  I  said. 

He  argued  and  pleaded  with  me,  all  to  no 
purpose.  He  set  the  candle  on  the  table  and 
blew  it  out. 

"  You  won't  come? "  he  said  out  of  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  No." 

"  You're  a  fool." 

He  slammed  the  door.  I  never  saw  him  again. 
But  many  a  time  on  the  long  voyage  I  recalled 
his  wise  counsel,  prompted  as  it  was  by  pure 
friendliness,  and  wished  from  my  heart  I  had 
taken  his  advice. 

Next  day  the  runner  for  Levy's  tried  to  ship 


- 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  OUTFITTER   17 

me  aboard  the  steam  whaler  William  Lewis. 
When  we  arrived  at  the  shipping  office  on  the 
water  front,  it  was  crowded  with  sailors  and 
rough  fellows,  many  of  them  half  drunk,  and  all 
eager  for  a  chance  to  land  a  berth.  A  bronzed 
and  bearded  man  stood  beside  a  desk  and  sur- 
veyed them.  He  was  the  skipper  of  the  steamer. 
The  men  were  pushing  and  elbowing  in  an  ef- 
fort to  get  to  the  front  and  catch  his  eye. 

"  I've  been  north  before,  captain,"  "  I'm  an 
able  seaman,  sir,"  "  I  know  the  ropes,"  "  Give 
me  a  chance,  captain,"  "Take  me,  sir;  I'll  make 
a  good  hand," — so  they  clamored  their  virtues 
noisily.  The  captain  chose  this  man  and  that. 
In  twenty  minutes  his  crew  was  signed.  It  was 
not  a  question  of  getting  enough  men;  it  was  a 
mere  matter  of  selection.  In  such  a  crowd  of 
sailormen,  I  stood  no  show.  In  looking  back  on 
it  all,  I  wonder  how  such  shipping  office  scenes 
are  possible,  how  men  of  ordinary  intelligence 
are  herded  aboard  whale  ships  like  sheep,  how 
they  even  fight  for  a  chance  to  go. 

It  was  just  as  well  I  failed  to  ship  aboard  the 
William   Lewis.     The  vessel  went  to  pieces  in 


18       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

the  ice  on  the  north  Alaskan  coast  the  following 
spring.  Four  men  lost  their  lives  and  only  after 
a  bitter  experience  as  castaways  on  the  floes  were 
the  others  rescued. 

That  afternoon  Captain  Shorey  of  the  brig 
Alexander  visited  Levy's.  I  was  called  to  his 
attention  as  a  likely  young  hand  and  he  shipped 
me  as  a  member  of  his  crew.  I  signed  articles 
for  a  year's  voyage.  It  was  provided  that  I  was 
to  receive  a  $50  advance  with  which  to  outfit 
myself  for  the  voyage ;  of  course,  any  money  left 
over  after  all  necessary  articles  had  been  pur- 
chased was  to  be  mine — at  least,  in  my  inno- 
cence, I  imagined  it  was. 

The  brig  was  lying  in  the  stream  off  Goat 
Island  and  the  runner  set  about  the  work  of  out- 
fitting me  at  once.  lie  and  I  and  a  clerk  went 
about  the  store  from  shelf  to  shelf,  selecting 
articles.  The  runner  carried  a  pad  of  paper  on 
which  he  marked  down  the  cost.  I  was  given  a 
sailor's  canvas  bag,  a  mattress,  a  pair  of  blan- 
kets, woolen  trousers,  dungaree  trousers,  a  coat, 
a  pair  of  brogans,  a  pair  of  rubber  sea  boots,  un- 
derwear, socks,  two  flannel  shirts,  a  cap,  a  belt 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  OUTFITTER  19 

and  sheath  knife,  a  suit  of  oilskins  and  sou'- 
wester, a  tin  cup,  tin  pan,  knife,  fork  and  spoon. 
That  was  all.  It  struck  me  as  a  rather  slender 
equipment  for  a  year's  voyage.  The  runner 
footed  up  the  cost. 

"  Why,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  great  surprise, 
"  this  foots  up  to  $.53  and  your  advance  is  only 
$50." 

He  added  up  the  column  of  figures  again. 
But  he  had  made  no  mistake.  He  seemed  per- 
plexed. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  to  scratch  off 
anything,"  he  said.  "  You'll  need  every  one  of 
these  articles." 

He  puckered  his  brow,  bit  the  end  of  his  pen- 
cil, and  studied  the  figures.  It  was  evidently  a 
puzzling  problem. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  Bring  me  down  a  few  curios  from  the 
Arctic  and  I'll  call  it  square." 

I  suppose  my  outfit  was  really  worth  about 
$6 — not  over  $10.  As  soon  as  my  bag  had  been 
packed,  I  was  escorted  to  the  wharf  by  the  run- 
ner and  rowed  out  to  the  brig.     As  I  prepared 


20       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

to  climb  over  the  ship's  rail,  the  runner  shook 
me  by  the  hand  and  clapped  me  on  the  back  with 
a  great  show  of  cordial  goodfellowship. 
"  Don't  forget  my  curios,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  MEN  OF  THE  "  ALEXANDER  " 

THE  brig  Alexander  was  a  staunch,  sea- 
worthy little  vessel.  She  had  no  fine  lines ; 
there  was  nothing  about  her  to  please  a 
yachtsman's  eye;  but  she  was  far  from  being  a 
tub  as  whaling  ships  are  often  pictured.  She 
was  built  at  New  Bedford  especially  for  Arctic 
whaling.  Her  hull  was  of  sturdy  oak,  reinforced 
at  the  bows  to  enable  her  to  buck  her  way 
through  ice. 

Though  she  was  called  a  brig,  she  was  really 
a  brigantine,  rigged  with  square  sails  on  her 
fore-mast  and  with  fore-and-aft  sails  on  her 
main.  She  was  of  only  128  tons  but  quite  lofty, 
her  royal  yard  being  eighty  feet  above  the  deck. 
On  her  fore-mast  she  carried  a  fore-sail,  a  single 
topsail,  a  fore-top-gallant  sail,  and  a  royal;  on 

21 


22       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

her  main-mast,  a  big  mainsail  with  a  gaff-topsail 
above  it.  Three  whale  boats — starboard,  lar- 
board, and  waist  boats — hung  at  her  davits. 
Amidships  stood  the  brick  try-works  equipped 
with  furnaces  and  cauldrons  for  rendering  blub- 
ber into  oil. 

As  soon  as  I  arrived  on  board  I  was  taken  in 
charge  by  the  ship  keeper  and  conducted  to  the 
forecastle.  It  was  a  dark,  malodorous,  trian- 
gular hole  below  the  deck  in  the  bows.  At  the 
foot  of  the  ladder-like  stairs,  leading  down 
through  the  scuttle,  I  stepped  on  something  soft 
and  yielding.  Was  it  possible,  I  wondered  in 
an  instant's  flash  of  surprise,  that  the  forecastle 
was  laid  with  a  velvet  carpet?  No,  it  was  not. 
It  was  only  a  Kanaka  sailor  lying  on  the  floor 
dead  drunk.  The  bunks  were  ranged  round  the 
walls  in  a  double  tier.  I  selected  one  for  my- 
self, arranged  my  mattress  and  blankets,  and 
threw  my  bag  inside.  I  was  glad  to  get  back  to 
fresh  air  on  deck  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Members  of  the  crew  kept  coming  aboard  in 
charge  of  runners  and  boarding  bosses.  They 
were  a  hard  looking  lot ;  several  were  staggering 


MEN   OF   THE  "ALEXANDER"    23 

drunk,  and  most  of  them  were  tipsy.  All  had 
bottles  and  demijohns  of  whiskey.  Everybody 
was  full  of  bad  liquor  and  high  spirits  that  first 
night  on  the  brig.  A  company  of  jolly  sea  rovers 
were  we,  and  we  joked  and  laughed  and  roared 
out  songs  like  so  many  pirates  about  to  cruise 
for  treasure  galleons  on  the  Spanish  Main. 
Somehow  next  morning  the  rose  color  had  faded 
out  of  the  prospect  and  there  were  many  aching 
heads  aboard. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  the  officers 
came  out  to  the  vessel.  A  tug  puffed  alongside 
and  made  fast  to  us  with  a  cable.  The  anchor 
was  heaved  up  and,  with  the  tug  towing  us,  we 
headed  for  the  Golden  Gate.  Outside  the  har- 
bor heads,  the  tug  cast  loose  and  put  back  into 
the  bay  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  The  brig  was  left 
swinging  on  the  long  swells  of  the  Pacific. 

The  captain  stopped  pacing  up  and  down  the 
quarter-deck  and  said  something  to  the  mate. 
His  words  seemed  like  a  match  to  powder.  Im- 
mediately the  mate  began  roaring  out  orders. 
Boat-steerers  bounded  forward,  shouting  out  the 
orders  in  turn.     The  old  sailors  sang  them  out  in 


24       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

repetition.  Men  sprang  aloft.  Loosened  sails 
were  soon  rolling  down  and  fluttering  from  every 
spar.  The  sailors  began  pulling  on  halyards  and 
yo-hoing  on  sheets.  Throughout  the  work  of 
setting  sail,  the  green  hands  were  "  at  sea  "  in  a 
double  sense.  The  bustle  and  apparent  confu- 
sion of  the  scene  seemed  to  savor  of  bedlam  broke 
loose.  The  orders  were  Greek  to  them.  They 
stood  about,  bewildered  and  helpless.  When- 
ever they  tried  to  help  the  sailors  they  invariably 
snarled  things  up  and  were  roundly  abused  for 
their  pains.  One  might  fancy  they  could  at  least 
have  helped  pull  on  a  rope.  They  couldn't  even 
do  that.  Pulling  on  a  rope,  sailor-fashion,  is  in 
itself  an  art. 

Finally  all  the  sails  were  sheeted  home.  Ropes 
were  coiled  up  and  hung  neatly  on  belaying  pins. 
A  fresh  breeze  set  all  the  snowy  canvas  drawing 
and  the  brig,  all  snug  and  shipshape,  went  ca- 
reering southward. 

At  the  outset  of  the  voyage,  the  crew  consisted 
of  twenty-four  men.  Fourteen  men  were  in  the 
forecastle.  The  after-crew  comprised  the  cap- 
tain, mate,  second  mate,  third  mate,  two  boat- 


MEN  OF  THE  "ALEXANDER"    25 

steerers,  steward,  cooper,  cook,  and  cabin  boy. 
Captain  Shorey  was  not  aboard.  He  was  to 
join  the  vessel  at  Honolulu.  Mr.  Winchester, 
the  mate,  took  the  brig  to  the  Hawaiian  Islands 
as  captain.  This  necessitated  a  graduated  rise 
in  authority  all  along  the  line.  Mr.  Landers, 
who  had  shipped  as  second  mate,  became  mate; 
Gabriel,  the  regular  third  mate,  became  second 
mate;  and  Mendez,  a  boatsteerer,  was  advanced 
to  the  position  of  third  mate. 

Captain  Winchester  was  a  tall,  spare,  vigor- 
ous man  with  a  nose  like  Julius  Ca?sar's  and  a 
cavernous  bass  voice  that  boomed  like  a  sunset 
gun.  He  was  a  man  of  some  education,  which 
is  a  rarity  among  officers  of  whale  ships,  and  was 
a  typical  Xew  England  Yankee.  He  had  run 
away  to  sea  as  a  boy  and  had  been  engaged  in 
the  whaling  trade  for  twenty  years.  For  thir- 
teen years,  he  had  been  sailing  to  the  Arctic 
Ocean  as  master  and  mate  of  vessels,  and  was 
ingrained  with  the  autocratic  traditions  of  the 
quarter-deck.  Though  every  inch  a  sea  dog  of 
the  hard,  old-fashioned  school,  he  had  his  kindly 
human  side,  as  I  learned  later.     He  was  bv  far 


26       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

the  best  whaleman  aboard  the  brig;  as  skillful 
and  daring  as  any  that  ever  laid  a  boat  on  a 
whale's  back;  a  fine,  bold,  hardy  type  of  seaman 
and  an  honor  to  the  best  traditions  of  the  sea. 
He  lost  his  life — poor  fellow — in  a  whaling 
adventure  in  the  Arctic  Ocean  on  his  next 
voyage. 

Mr.  Landers,  the  mate,  wTas  verging  on  sixty; 
his  beard  was  grizzled,  but  there  wasn't  a  streak 
of  gray  in  his  coal-black  hair.  He  was  stout  and 
heavy-limbed  and  must  have  been  remarkably 
strong  in  his  youth.  He  was  a  Cape  Codder  and 
talked  with  a  quaint,  nasal,  Yankee  drawl.  He 
had  been  to  sea  all  his  life  and  was  a  whaleman 
of  thirty  years'  experience.  In  all  these  years, 
he  had  been  ashore  very  little — only  a  few  weeks 
between  his  year-long  voyages,  during  which 
time,  it  was  said,  he  kept  up  his  preference  for 
liquids,  exchanging  blue  water  for  red  liquor. 
He  was  a  picturesque  old  fellow,  and  was  so  ac- 
customed to  the  swinging  deck  of  a  ship  under 
him  that  standing  or  sitting,  in  perfectly  still 
weather  or  with  the  vessel  lying  motionless  at 
anchor,  he  swayed  his  body  from   side  to    side 


MEN   OF   THE    'ALEXANDER'1    27 

heavily  as  if  in  answer  to  the  rise  and  fall  of 
waves.  He  was  a  silent,  easy-going  man,  with 
a  fund  of  dry  humor  and  hard  common  sense. 
He  never  did  any  more  work  than  he  had  to,  and 
before  the  voyage  ended,  he  was  suspected  by 
the  officers  of  being  a  malingerer.  All  the  sailors 
liked  him. 

Gabriel,  the  second  mate,  was  a  negro  from 
the  Cape  Verde  islands.  His  native  language 
was  Portuguese  and  he  talked  funny,  broken 
Knglish.  He  was  about  forty-five  years  old, 
and  though  he  was  almost  as  dark-skinned  as 
any  Ethiopian,  he  had  hair  and  a  full  beard  as 
finely  spun  and  free  from  kinkiness  as  a  Cau- 
casian's. The  sailors  used  to  say  that  Gabriel 
was  a  white  man  born  black  by  accident.  Pie  was 
a  kindly,  cheerful  soul  with  shrewd  native  wit. 
He  was  a  whaleman  of  life-long  experience. 

Mendez,  the  third  mate,  and  Long  John,  one 
of  the  boatsteerers,  were  also  Cape  Verde  island- 
ers. Long  John  was  a  giant,  standing  six  feet, 
four  inches;  an  ungainly,  powerful  fellow,  with 
a  black  face  as  big  as  a  ham  and  not  much  more 
expressive.     He  had  the  reputation  of  being  one 


28       A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

of  the  most  expert  harpooners  of  the  Arctic 
Ocean  whaling  fleet. 

Little  Johnny,  the  other  boatsteerer,  was  a 
mulatto  from  the  Barbadoes,  English  islands  of 
the  West  Indies.  He  was  a  strapping,  intelli- 
gent young  man,  brimming  over  with  vitalit}^ 
and  high  spirits  and  with  all  a  plantation  darky's 
love  of  fun.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  his  cheeks 
ruddy  with  perfect  health;  he  loved  dress  and 
gay  colors  and  was  quite  the  dandy  of  the  crew. 

Five  of  the  men  of  the  forecastle  were  deep- 
water  sailors.  Of  these  one  was  an  American, 
one  a  German,  one  a  Norwegian,  and  two 
Swedes.  They  followed  the  sea  for  a  living  and 
had  been  bunkoed  by  their  boarding  bosses  into 
believing  they  would  make  large  sums  of  money 
whaling.  They  had  been  taken  in  by  a  confi- 
dence game  as  artfully  as  the  man  who  loses  his 
money  at  the  immemorial  trick  of  three  shells 
and  a  pea.  When  they  learned  they  would  get 
only  a  dollar  at  the  end  of  the  voyage  and  con- 
templated the  loss  of  an  entire  working  year, 
they  were  full  of  resentment  and  righteous, 
though  futile,  anger. 


MEN   OF   THE  "ALEXANDER"    29 

Taylor,  the  American,  became  the  acknowl- 
edged leader  of  the  forecastle.  He  quickly  es- 
tablished himself  in  this  position,  not  only  by  his 
skill  and  long  experience  as  a  seaman,  but  by 
his  aggressiveness,  his  domineering  character, 
and  his  physical  ability  to  deal  with  men  and  sit- 
uations. He  was  a  bold,  iron-fisted  fellow  to 
whom  the  green  hands  looked  for  instruction 
and  advice,  whom  several  secretly  feared,  and 
for  whom  all  had  a  wholesome  respect. 

Nels  Xelson,  a  red-haired,  red-bearded  old 
Swede,  was  the  best  sailor  aboard.  He  had  had 
a  thousand  adventures  on  all  the  seas  of  all  the 
world.  He  had  been  around  Cape  Horn  seven 
times — a  sailor  is  not  rated  as  a  really-truly 
sailor  until  he  has  made  a  passage  around  that 
stormy  promontory — and  he  had  rounded  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope  so  many  times  he  had  lost 
the  count.  He  had  ridden  out  a  typhoon  on  the 
coast  of  Japan  and  had  been  driven  ashore  by  a 
hurricane  in  the  West  Indies.  He  had  sailed 
on  an  expedition  to  Cocos  Island,  that  realm  of 
mystery  and  romance,  to  try  to  lift  pirate  treas- 
ure in  doubloons,  plate,  and  pieces-of-eight,  sup- 


30       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

posed  to  have  been  buried  there  by  "  Bugs  " 
Thompson  and  Benito  Bonito,  those  one-time 
terrors  of  the  Spanish  Main.  He  had  been  cast 
away  in  the  South  Seas  in  an  open  boat  with 
three  companions,  and  had  eaten  the  flesh  of  the 
man  whose  fate  had  been  sealed  by  the  casting 
of  lots.  He  was  some  man,  was  Nelson.  I  some- 
times vaguely  suspected  he  was  some  liar,  too, 
but  I  don't  know.  I  think  most  of  his  stories 
were  true. 

He  could  do  deftly  everything  intricate  and 
subtle  in  sailorcraft  from  tying  the  most  won- 
derful knots  to  splicing  wire.  None  of  the  offi- 
cers could  teach  old  Nelson  anything  about 
fancy  sailorizing  and  they  knew  it.  Whenever 
they  wanted  an  unusual  or  particularly  difficult 
piece  of  work  done  they  called  on  him,  and  he 
always  did  it  in  the  best  seamanly  fashion. 

Richard,  the  German,  was  a  sturdy,  manly 
young  chap  who  had  served  in  the  German  navy. 
He  was  well  educated  and  a  smart  seaman.  Ole 
Oleson,  the  Norwegian,  was  just  out  of  his  teens 
but  a  fine  sailor.  Peter  Swenson,  a  Swede,  was 
a  chubby,  rosy  boy  of  sixteen,  an  ignorant,  reek- 


MEN   OF   THE    "ALEXANDER"    31 

less,  devil-may-care  lad,  who  was  looked  upon 
as  the  bahy  of  the  forecastle  and  humored  and 
spoiled  accordingly. 

Among  the  six  white  green  hands,  there  was 
a  "  mule  skinner  "  from  western  railway  con- 
struction camps;  a  cowboy  who  believed  himself 
fitted  for  the  sea  after  years  of  experience  on  the 
"  hurricane  deck  "  of  a  bucking  broncho;  a  coun- 
try boy  straight  from  the  plow  and  with 
"  farmer "  stamped  all  over  him  in  letters  of 
light;  a  man  suspected  of  having  had  trouble 
with  the  police;  another  who,  in  lazy  night 
watches,  spun  frank  yarns  of  burglaries;  and 
"  Slim,"  an  Irishman  who  said  he  had  served 
with  the  Royal  Life  Guards  in  the  English  army. 
There  was  one  old  whaler.  He  was  a  shiftless, 
loquacious  product  of  city  slums.  This  was  his 
seventh  whaling  voyage — which  would  seem  suf- 
ficient comment  on  his  character. 

"  It  beats  hoboing,"  he  said.  And  as  his  life's 
ambition  seemed  centered  on  three  meals  a  day 
and  a  bunk  to  sleep  in,  perhaps  it  did. 

Two  Kanakas  completed  the  forecastle  crew. 
These  and  the  cabin  bov,  who  was  also  a  Kanaka, 


32       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

talked  fair  English,  but  among  themselves  they 
always  spoke  their  native  language.  I  had  heard 
much  of  the  liquid  beauty  of  the  Kanaka  tongue. 
It  was  a  surprise  to  find  it  the  most  unmusical 
and  harshly  guttural  language  I  ever  heard.  It 
comes  from  the  mouth  in  a  series  of  explosive 
grunts  and  gibberings.  The  listener  is  distinctly 
and  painfully  impressed  with  the  idea  that  if  the 
nitroglycerine  words  wrere  retained  in  the  sys- 
tem, they  would  prove  dangerous  to  health  and 
is  fearful  lest  they  choke  the  spluttering  Kanaka 
to  death  before  he  succeeds  in  biting  them  off  and 
flinging  them  into  the  atmosphere. 


CHAPTER    III 


WHY  WE  DON  T  DESERT 


AS  soon  as  we  were  under  sail,  the  crew  was 
called  aft  and  the  watches  selected.  Ga- 
briel was  to  head  the  starboard  watch  and 
Mendez  the  port.  The  men  were  ranged  in  line 
and  the  heads  of  the  watches  made  their  selec- 
tions, turn  and  turn  about.  The  deep-water  sail- 
ors were  the  first  to  be  chosen.  The  green  hands 
were  picked  for  their  appearance  of  strength 
and  activity.    I  fell  into  the  port  watch. 

Sea  watches  were  now  set — four  hours  for 
sleep  and  four  for  work  throughout  the  twenty- 
four.  My  watch  was  sent  below.  Xo  one  slept 
during  this  first  watch  below,  but  we  made  up 
*"or  lost  time  during  our  second  turn.  Soon  we 
became  accustomed  to  the  routine  and  found  it 
as  restful  as  the  usual  landsman's  method  of 
eight  hours'  sleep  and  sixteen  of  wakefulness. 

33 


34       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

It  is  difficult  for  a  landlubber  to  understand 
how  sailors  on  shipboard  can  be  kept  constantly 
busy.  The  brig  was  a  veritable  hive  of  industry. 
The  watch  on  deck  when  morning  broke  pumped 
ship  and  swept  and  flushed  down  the  decks.  Dur- 
ing the  day  watches,  in  addition  to  working  the 
ship,  we  were  continuously  breaking  out  sup- 
plies, keeping  the  water  barrel  on  deck  filled 
from  casks  in  the  hold,  laboring  with  the  cargo, 
scrubbing  paint  work,  polishing  brass  work, 
slushing  masts  and  spars,  repairing  rigging,  and 
attending  to  a  hundred  and  one  details  that  must 
be  looked  after  every  day.  The  captain  of  a 
ship  is  one  of  the  most  scrupulous  housekeepers 
in  the  world,  and  only  by  keeping  his  crew  busy 
from  morning  till  night  is  he  able  to  keep  his 
ship  spick  and  span  and  in  proper  repair.  Whale 
ships  are  supposed  to  be  dirty.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  kept  as  clean  as  water  and  brooms  and 
hard  work  can  keep  them. 

The  food  served  aboard  the  brig  was  nothing 
to  brag  about.  Breakfast  consisted  of  corned- 
beef  hash,  hardtack,  and  coffee  without  milk  or 
sugar.     We  sweetened  our  coffee  with  molasses, 


WHY    WE    DON'T   DESERT       35 

a  keg  of  which  was  kept  in  the  forecastle.  For 
dinner,  we  had  soup,  corned-beef  stew,  called 
"  skouse,"  a  loaf  of  soft  bread,  and  coffee.  For 
supper,  we  had  slices  of  corned-beef  which  the 
sailors  called  "  salt  horse,"  hardtack,  and  tea. 
The  principal  variation  in  this  diet  was  in  the 
soups. 

The  days  were  a  round  of  barley  soup,  bean 
soup,  pea  soup,  and  back  to  barley  soup  again, 
an  alternation  that  led  the  men  to  speak  of  the 
days  of  the  week  not  as  Monday,  Tuesday,  and 
so  on,  but  as  "  barley  soup  day,"  "  bean  soup 
day,"  and  "  pea  soup  day."  Once  or  twice  a 
week  we  had  gingerbread  for  supper.  On  the 
other  hand  the  cabin  fared  sumptuously  on 
canned  vegetables,  meat,  salmon,  soft  bread,  tea, 
and  coffee  with  sugar  and  condensed  milk,  fresh 
fish  and  meat  whenever  procurable,  and  a  des- 
sert every  day  at  dinner,  including  plum  duff,  a 
famous  sea  delicacy  which  never  in  all  the  voy- 
age found  its  way  forward. 

From  the  first  day,  the  green  hands  were  set 
learning  the  ropes,  to  stand  lookout,  to  take  their 
trick  at  the  wheel,   to  reef  and   furl   and  work 


36       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

among  the  sails.  These  things  are  the  A  B  C  of 
seamanship,  but  they  are  not  to  be  learned  in  a 
day  or  a  week.  A  ship  is  a  complicated  mechan- 
ism, and  it  takes  a  long  time  for  a  novice  to  ac- 
quire even  the  rudiments  of  sea  education.  Going 
aloft  was  a  terrifying  ordeal  at  first  to  several 
of  the  green  hands,  though  it  never  bothered  me. 
When  the  cowboy  was  first  ordered  to  furl  the 
fore-royal,  he  hung  back  and  said,  "  I  can't " 
and  "  I'll  fall,"  and  whimpered  and  begged  to 
be  let  off.  But  he  was  forced  to  try.  He 
climbed  the  ratlines  slowly  and  painfully  to  the 
royal  yard,  and  he  finally  furled  the  sail,  though 
it  took  him  a  long  time  to  do  it.  He  felt  so 
elated  that  after  that  he  wanted  to  furl  the  royal 
every  time  it  had  to  be  done; — didn't  want  to 
give  anyone  else  a  chance. 

Furling  the  royal  was  a  one-man  job.  The 
foot-rope  was  only  a  few  feet  below  the  yard, 
and  if  a  man  stood  straight  on  it,  the  yard  would 
strike  him  a  little  above  the  knees.  If  the  ship 
were  pitching,  a  fellow  had  to  look  sharp  or  he 
would  be  thrown  off; — if  that  had  happened  it 
was  a  nice,  straight  fall  of  eighty  feet  to  the 


WHY    WE   DON'T   DESERT       37 

deck.  My  own  first  experience  on  the  royal 
yard  gave  me  an  exciting  fifteen  minutes.  The 
ship  seemed  to  be  fighting  me  and  devoting  an 
unpleasant  amount  of  time  and  effort  to  it;  buck- 
ing and  tossing  as  if  with  a  sentient  determina- 
tion to  shake  me  off  into  the  atmosphere.  I  es- 
caped becoming  a  grease  spot  on  the  deck  of  the 
brig  only  by  hugging  the  yard  as  if  it  were  a 
sweetheart  and  hanging  on  for  dear  life.  I  be- 
came in  time  quite  an  expert  at  furling  the  sail. 

Standing  lookout  was  the  one  thing  aboard  a 
green  hand  could  do  as  well  as  an  old  sailor.  The 
lookout  was  posted  on  the  forecastle-head  in  fair 
weather  and  on  the  try-works  in  a  storm.  He 
stood  two  hours  at  a  stretch.  He  had  to  scan 
the  sea  ahead  closely  and  if  a  sail  or  anything 
unusual  appeared,  he  reported  to  the  officer  of 
the  watch. 

Learning  to  steer  by  the  compass  was  com- 
paratively easy.  With  the  ship  heading  on  a 
course,  it  was  not  difficult  by  manipulating  the 
wheel  to  keep  the  needle  of  the  compass  on  a 
given  point.  But  to  steer  by  the  wind  was  hard 
to  learn  and  is  sometimes  a  nice  matter  even  for 

46124 


38       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

skillful  seamen.  When  a  ship  is  close-hauled 
and  sailing,  as  sailors  say,  right  in  the  wind's 
eye,  the  wind  is  blowing  into  the  braced  sails  at 
the  weather  edge  of  the  canvas; — if  the  vessel 
were  brought  any  higher  up,  the  wind  would 
pour  around  on  the  back  of  the  sails.  The  helms- 
man's aim  is  to  keep  the  luff  of  the  royal  sail  or 
of  the  sails  that  happen  to  be  set,  wrinkling  and 
loose — luffing,  sailors  call  it.  That  shows  that 
the  wind  is  slanting  into  the  sails  at  just  the 
right  angle  and  perhaps  a  little  bit  is  spilling 
over.  I  gradually  learned  to  do  this  in  the  day- 
time. But  at  night  when  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible for  me  to  see  the  luff  of  the  sails  clearly,  it 
was  extremely  difficult  and  I  got  into  trouble 
more  than  once  by  my  clumsiness.  The  trick  at 
the  wheel  was  of  two  hours'  duration. 

The  second  day  out  from  San  Francisco  was 
Christmas.  I  had  often  read  that  Christmas  was 
a  season  of  good  cheer  and  happiness  among 
sailors  at  sea,  that  it  was  commemorated  with 
religious  service,  and  that  the  skipper  sent  for- 
ward grog  and  plum  duff  to  gladden  the  hearts 
of  the  sailormen.     But  Santa  Claus  forgot  the 


WHY    WE   DON'T   DESERT       39 

sailors  on  the  brig.  Bean  soup  only  distin- 
guished Christmas  from  the  day  that  had  gone 
before  and  the  day  that  came  after.  No  liquor 
or  tempting  dishes  came  to  the  forecastle.  It 
was  the  usual  day  of  hard  work  from  dawn  to 
dark. 

After  two  weeks  of  variable  weather  during 
which  we  were  often  becalmed,  we  put  into  Tur- 
tle bay,  midway  down  the  coast  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia, and  dropped  anchor. 

Turtle  bay  is  a  beautiful  little  land-locked 
harbor  on  an  uninhabited  coast.  There  was  no 
village  or  any  human  habitation  on  its  shores. 
A  desolate,  treeless  country,  seamed  by  gullies 
and  scantily  covered  with  sun-dried  grass,  rolled 
away  to  a  chain  of  high  mountains  which  forms 
the  backbone  of  the  peninsula  of  Lower  Califor- 
nia. These  mountains  were  perhaps  thirty 
miles  from  the  coast ;  they  were  gray  and  appar- 
ently barren  of  trees  or  any  sort  of  herbage,  and 
looked  to  be  ridges  of  naked  granite.  The  des- 
ert character  of  the  landscape  was  a  surprise, 
as  we  were  almost  within  the  tropics. 

We  spent  three  weeks  of  hard  work  in  Turtle 


40       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

bay.  Sea  watches  were  abolished  and  all  hands 
were  called  on  deck  at  dawn  and  kept  busy  until 
sundown.  The  experienced  sailors  were  em- 
ployed as  sail  makers;  squatting  all  day  on  the 
quarter-deck,  sewing  on  canvas  with  a  palm  and 
needle.  Old  sails  were  sent  down  from  the  spars 
and  patched  and  repaired.  If  they  were  too  far 
gone,  new  sails  were  bent  in  their  stead.  The 
green  hands  had  the  hard  work.  They  broke 
out  the  hold  and  restowed  every  piece  of  cargo, 
arranging  it  so  that  the  vessel  rode  on  a  per- 
fectly even  keel.  Yards  and  masts  were  slushed, 
the  rigging  was  tarred,  and  the  ship  was  painted 
inside  and  out 

The  waters  of  the  harbor  were  alive  with  Span- 
ish mackerel,  albacore,  rock  bass,  bonitos,  and 
other  kinds  of  fish.  The  mackerel  appeared  in 
great  schools  that  rippled  the  water  as  if  a  strong 
breeze  were  blowing.  These  fish  attracted  great 
numbers  of  gray  pelicans,  which  had  the  most 
wonderful  mode  of  flight  I  have  ever  seen  in  any 
bird.  For  hours  at  a  time,  with  perfectly  mo- 
tionless pinions,  they  skimmed  the  surface  of 
the   bay   like  living  aeroplanes;   one    wondered 


WHY    WE   DON'T   DESERT       41 

wherein  lay  their  motor  power  and  how  they 
managed  to  keep  going.  When  they  spied  a 
school  of  mackerel,  they  rose  straight  into  the 
air  with  a  great  flapping  of  wings,  then  turned 
their  heads  downward,  folded  their  wings  close 
to  their  bodies,  and  dropped  like  a  stone.  Their 
great  beaks  cut  the  water,  they  went  under  with 
a  terrific  splash,  and  immediately  emerged  with 
a  fish  in  the  net-like  membrane  beneath  their 
lower  mandible. 

Every  Sunday,  a  boat's  crew  went  fishing. 
We  fished  with  hand  lines  weighted  with  lead 
and  having  three  or  four  hooks,  baited  at  first 
with  bacon  and  later  with  pieces  of  fresh  fish. 
I  never  had  such  fine  fishing.  The  fish  bit  as 
fast  as  we  could  throw  in  our  lines,  and  we  were 
kept  busy  hauling  them  out  of  the  water.  We 
would  fill  a  whale  boat  almost  to  the  gunwales 
in  a  few  hours.  With  the  return  of  the  first  fish- 
ing expedition,  the  sailors  had  dreams  of  a  feast, 
but  they  were  disappointed.  The  fish  went  to 
the  captain's  table  or  were  salted  away  in  barrels 
for  the  cabin's  future  use.  The  sailors,  however, 
enjoyed  the  fun.    Many  of  them  kept  lines  con- 


42       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

stantly  over  the  brig's  sides,  catching  skates, 
soles,  and  little  sharks. 

By  the  time  we  reached  Turtle  bay,  it  was  no 
longer  a  secret  that  we  would  get  only  a  dollar 
for  our  year's  voyage.  As  a  result,  a  feverish 
spirit  of  discontent  began  to  manifest  itself 
among  those  forward  and  plans  to  run  away 
became  rife. 

We  were  anchored  about  a  half  mile  from 
shore,  and  after  looking  over  the  situation,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  try  to  escape.  Except  for 
an  officer  and  a  boatsteerer  who  stood  watch,  all 
hands  were  asleep,  below  at  night.  Being  a  good 
swimmer,  I  planned  to  slip  over  the  bow  in  the 
darkness  and  swim  ashore.  Once  on  land,  I  fig- 
ured it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  cross  the 
Sierras  and  reach  a  Mexican  settlement  on  the 
Gulf  of  California. 

Possibly  the  officers  got  wind  of  the  runaway 
plots  brewing  in  the  forecastle,  for  Captain 
Winchester  came  forward  one  evening,  some- 
thing he  never  had  done  before,  and  fell  into  gos- 
sipy talk  with  the  men. 

"  Have  you  noticed  that  pile  of  stones  with  a 


WHY    WE   DON'T   DESERT       43 

cross  sticking  in  it  on  the  harbor  head?  "  he  asked 
in  a  casual  sort  of  way. 

Yes,  we  had  all  noticed  it  from  the  moment 
we  dropped  anchor,  and  had  wondered  what  it 
was. 

"  That,"  said  the  captain  impressively,  "  is  a 
grave.  Whaling  vessels  have  been  coming  to 
Turtle  bay  for  years  to  paint  ship  and  overhaul. 
Three  sailors  on  a  whaler  several  years  ago 
thought  this  was  a  likely  place  in  which  to  es- 
cape. They  managed  to  swim  ashore  at  night 
and  struck  into  the  hills.  They  expected  to  find 
farms  and  villages  back  inland.  They  didn't 
know  that  the  whole  peninsula  of  Lower  Cali- 
fornia is  a  waterless  desert  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  They  had  some  food  with  them  and  they 
kept  going  for  days.  No  one  knows  how  far 
inland  they  traveled,  but  they  found  neither  in- 
habitants nor  water  and  their  food  was  soon 
gone. 

"  When  they  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  and 
were  half  dying  from  thirst  and  hunger,  they 
turned  back  for  the  coast.  "By  the  time  they  re- 
turned to  Turtle  bay  their  ship  had  sailed  away 


44       A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

and  there  they  were  on  a  desert  shore  without 
food  or  water  and  no  way  to  get  either.  I  sup- 
pose they  camped  on  the  headand  in  the  hope  of 
hailing  a  passing  ship.  But  the  vessels  that  pass 
up  and  down  this  coast  usually  keep  out  of  sight 
of  land.  Maybe  the  poor  devils  sighted  a  dis- 
tant topsail — no  one  knows — but  if  they  did  the 
ship  sank  beyond  the  horizon  without  paying  any 
attention  to  their  frantic  signals.  So  they  died 
miserably  there  on  the  headland. 

"  Next  year,  a  whale  ship  found  their  bodies 
and  erected  a  cairn  of  stones  marked  by  the  cross 
you  see  orer  the  spot  where  the  three  sailors 
were  buried  together.  This  is  a  bad  country  to 
run  away  in,"  the  captain  added.  "  No  food,  no 
water,  no  inhabitants.  It's  sure  death  for  a  run- 
away." 

Having  spun  this  tragic  yarn,  Captain  Win- 
chester went  aft  again,  feeling,  no  doubt,  that  he 
had  sowed  seed  on  fertile  soil.  The  fact  is  his 
story  had  an  instant  effect.  Most  of  the  men 
abandoned  their  plans  to  escape,  at  least  for  the 
time  being,  hoping  a  more  favorable  opportunity 
would  present  itself  when  we  reached  the  Hawai- 


WHY    WE   DON'T   DESERT       45 

an  islands.  But  I  had  my  doubts.  I  thought 
it  possible  the  captain  merely  had  "  put  over  " 
a  good  bluff. 

Next  day  I  asked  Little  Johnny,  the  boat- 
steerer,  if  it  were  true  as  the  captain  had  said, 
that  Lower  California  was  an  uninhabited  desert. 
He  assured  me  it  was  and  to  prove  it,  he  brought 
out  a  ship's  chart  from  the  cabin  and  spread  it 
before  me.  I  found  that  only  two  towns 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  penin- 
sula were  set  down  on  the  map.  One  of  these 
was  Tia  Juana  on  the  west  coast  just  south  of 
the  United  States  boundary  line  and  the  other 
was  La  Paz  on  the  east  coast  near  Cape  St. 
Lucas,  the  southern  tip  of  the  peninsula.  Tur- 
tle bay  was  two  or  three  hundred  miles  from 
either  town. 

That  settled  it  with  me.  I  didn't  propose  to 
take  chances  on  dying  in  the  desert.  I  preferred 
a  whaler's  forecaste  to  that. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TURTLES    AND    PORPOISES 

WE  slipped  out  of  Turtle  bay  one  moon- 
light night  and  stood  southward.  We 
were  now  in  sperm  whale  waters  and  the 
crews  of  the  whale  boats  were  selected.  Cap- 
tain Winchester  was  to  head  the  starboard  boat; 
Mr.  Landers  the  larboard  boat;  and  Gabriel  the 
waist  boat.  Long  John  was  to  act  as  boat- 
steerer  for  Mr.  Winchester,  Little  Johnny  for 
Mr.  Landers,  and  Mendez  for  Gabriel.  The 
whale  boats  were  about  twenty-five  feet  long, 
rigged  with  leg-of-mutton  sails  and  jibs.  The 
crew  of  each  consisted  of  an  officer  known  as  a 
boat-header,  who  sat  in  the  stern  and  wielded  the 
tiller;  a  boatsteerer  or  harpooner,  whose  position 
was  in  the  bow;  and  four  sailors  who  pulled  the 

stroke,  midship,  tub,  and  bow  oars.     Each  boat 

46 


TURTLES   AND   PORPOISES      47 

had  a  tub  in  which  four  hundred  fathoms  of 
whale  line  were  coiled  and  carried  two  harpoons 
and  a  shoulder  bomb-gun.  I  was  assigned  to 
the  midship  oar  of  Gabriel's  boat. 

Let  me  take  occasion  just  here  to  correct  a 
false  impression  quite  generally  held  regarding 
whaling.  Many  persons — I  think,  most  per- 
sons— have  an  idea  that  in  modern  whaling,  har- 
poons are  fired  at  whales  from  the  decks  of  ships. 
This  is  true  only  of  'long-shore  whaling.  In  this 
trade,  fin-backs  and  the  less  valuable  varities  of 
whales  are  chased  by  small  steamers  which  fire 
harpoons  from  guns  in  the  bows  and  tow  the 
whales  they  kill  to  factories  along  shore,  where 
blubber,  flesh,  and  skeleton  are  turned  into  com- 
mercial products.  Many  published  articles  have 
familiarized  the  public  with  this  method  of  whal- 
ing. But  whaling  on  the  sperm  grounds  of  the 
tropics  and  on  the  right  whale  and  bowhead 
grounds  of  the  polar  seas  is  much  the  same  as  it 
has  always  been.  Boats  still  go  on  the  backs  of 
whales.  Harpoons  are  thrown  by  hand  into  the 
great  animals  as  of  yore.  Whales  still  run  away 
with  the  boats,  pulling  them  with  amazing  speed 


48       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

through  walls  of  split  water.  Whales  still  crush 
boats  with  blows  of  their  mighty  flukes  and  spill 
their  crews  into  the  sea. 

There  is  just  as  much  danger  and  just  as  much 
thrill  and  excitement  in  the  whaling  of  to-day 
as  there  was  in  that  of  a  century  ago.  Neither 
steamers  nor  sailing  vessels  that  cruise  for  sperm 
and  bowhead  and  right  whales  nowadays  have 
deck  guns  of  any  sort,  but  depend  entirely  upon 
the  bomb-guns  attached  to  harpoons  and  upon 
shoulder  bomb-guns  wielded  from  the  whale 
boats. 

In  the  old  days,  after  whales  had  been  har- 
pooned, they  were  stabbed  to  death  with  long, 
razor-sharp  lances.  The  lance  is  a  thing  of  the 
past.  The  tonite  bomb  has  taken  its  place  as  an 
instrument  of  destruction.  In  the  use  of  the 
tonite  bomb  lies  the  chief  difference  between  mod- 
ern whaling  and  the  whaling  of  the  old  school. 

The  modern  harpoon  is  the  same  as  it  has  been 
since  the  palmy  days  of  the  old  South  Sea  sperm 
fisheries.  33ut  fastened  on  its  iron  shaft  between 
the  wooden  handle  and  the  spear  point  is  a  brass 
cylinder  an  inch  in  diameter,  perhaps,  and  about 


TURTLES   AND    PORPOISES      49 

a  foot  long.  This  cylinder  is  a  tonite  bomb-gun. 
A  short  piece  of  metal  projects  from  the  flat 
lower  end.  This  is  the  trigger.  When  the  har- 
poon is  thrown  into  the  buttery,  blubber- 
wrapped  body  of  the  whale,  it  sinks  in  until  the 
whale's  skin  presses  the  trigger  up  into  the  gun 
and  fires  it  with  a  tiny  sound  like  the  explosion 
of  an  old-fashioned  shotgun  cap.  An  instant 
later  a  tonite  bomb  explodes  with  a  muffled  roar 
in  the  whale's  vitals. 

The  Arctic  Ocean  whaling  fleet  which  sails  out 
of  San  Francisco  and  which  in  the  year  of  my 
voyage  numbered  thirty  vessels,  makes  its  spring 
rendezvous  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands.  Most  of 
the  ships  leave  San  Francisco  in  December  and 
reach  Honolulu  in  March.  The  two  or  three 
months  spent  in  this  leisurely  voyage  are  known 
in  whaler  parlance  as  "  between  seasons."  On 
the  way  to  the  islands  the  ships  cruise  for  sperm 
whales  and  sometimes  lower  for  finbacks,  sul- 
phur-bottoms, California  grays,  and  even  black 
fish,  to  practice  their  green  hand  crews. 

Captain  Winchester  did  not  care  particularly 
whether  he  took  any  sperm  whales  or  not,  though 


50       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

sperm  oil  is  still  valuable.  The  brig  was  not 
merely  a  blubber-hunter.  Her  hold  was  filled 
with  oil  tanks  which  it  was  hoped  would  be  filled 
before  we  got  back,  but  the  chief  purpose  of  the 
voyage  was  the  capture  of  right  and  bowhead 
whales — the  great  baleen  whales  of  the  North. 

As  soon  as  we  left  Turtle  Bay,  a  lookout  for 
whales  was  posted.  During  the  day  watches,  a 
boatsteerer  and  a  sailor  sat  on  the  topsail  yard 
for  two  hours  at  a  stretch  and  scanned  the  sea 
for  spouts.  We  stood  down  the  coast  of  Lower 
California  and  in  a  few  days,  were  in  the  tide- 
rip  which  is  always  running  off  Cape  St.  Lucas, 
where  the  waters  of  the  Pacific  meet  a  counter- 
current  from  the  Gulf  of  California.  We 
rounded  Cape  St.  Lucas  and  sailed  north  into 
the  gulf,  having  a  distant  view  of  La  Paz,  a 
little  town  backed  by  gray  mountains.  Soon  we 
turned  south  again,  keeping  close  to  the  Mexican 
coast  for  several  days.  I  never  learned  how  far 
south  we  went,  but  we  must  have  worked  pretty 
well  toward  the  equator,  for  when  we  stood  out 
across  the  Pacific  for  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  our 
course  was  northwesterly. 


TURTLES    AND    PORPOISES      51 

I  saw  my  first  whales  one  morning  while  work- 
ing in  the  bows  with  the  watch  under  Mr.  Lan- 
der's supervision.  A  school  of  finbacks  was  out 
ahead  moving  in  leisurely  fashion  toward  the 
brig.  There  were  about  twenty  of  them  and  the 
sea  was  dotted  with  their  fountains.  "Blow!" 
breathed  old  man  Landers  with  mild  interest  as 
though  to  himself.  "Blow!"  boomed  Captain 
Winchester  in  his  big  bass  voice  from  the  quarter- 
deck. "  Nothin'  but  finbacks,  sir,"  shouted  the 
boatsteerer  from  the  mast-head.  "  All  right," 
sang  back  the  captain.  "  Let  'em  blow."  It 
was  easy  for  these  old  whalers  even  at  this  dis- 
tance to  tell  they  were  not  sperm  whales.  Their 
fountains  rose  straight  into  the  air.  A  sperm 
whale's  spout  slants  up  from  the  water  diagon- 
ally. 

The  whales  were  soon  all  about  the  ship,  seem- 
ingly unafraid,  still  traveling  leisurely,  their 
heads  rising  and  falling  rhythmically,  and  at  each 
rise  blowing  up  a  fountain  of  mist  fifteen  feet 
high.  The  fountains  looked  like  water;  some 
water  surely  was  mixed  with  them;  but  I  was 
told  that  the  mist  was  the  breath  of  the  animals 


52       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

made  visible  by  the  colder  air.  The  breath  came 
from  the  blow  holes  in  a  sibilant  roar  that  resem- 
bled no  sound  I  had  ever  heard.  If  one  can  im- 
agine a  giant  of  fable  snoring  in  his  sleep,  one 
may  have  an  idea  of  the  sound  of  the  mighty  ex- 
halation. The  great  lungs  whose  gentle  breath- 
ing could  shoot  a  jet  of  spray  fifteen  feet  into 
the  air  must  have  had  the  power  of  enormous 
bellows. 

Immense  coal-black  fellows  these  finbacks 
were — some  at  least  sixty  or  seventy  feet  long. 
One  swam  so  close  to  the  brig  that  when  he  blew, 
the  spray  fell  all  about  me,  wetting  my  clothes 
like  dew.  The  finback  is  a  baleen  whale  and  a 
cousin  of  the  right  whale  and  the  bowhead.  Their 
mouths  are  edged  with  close-set  slabs  of  baleen, 
which,  however,  is  so  short  that  it  is  worthless  for 
commercial  purposes.  They  are  of  much  slen- 
derer build  than  the  more  valuable  species  of 
whale.  Their  quickness  and  activity  make  them 
dangerous  when  hunted  in  the  boats,  but  their 
bodies  are  encased  in  blubber  so  thin  that  it  is 
as  worthless  as  their  bone.     Consequently  they 


TURTLES    AND    PORPOISES      53 

are  not  hunted  unless  a  whaling  ship  is  hard  up 
for  oil. 

We  gradually  worked  into  the  trade  winds  that 
blew  steadily  from  the  southeast.  These  winds 
stayed  with  us  for  several  weeks  or  rather  we 
stayed  with  the  winds ;  while  in  them  it  was  rarely 
necessary  to  take  in  or  set  a  sail  or  brace  a  yard. 
After  we  had  passed  through  these  aerial  rivers, 
flowing  through  definite,  if  invisible,  banks,  we 
struck  the  doldrums — areas  of  calm  between 
wind  currents — they  might  be  called  whirlpools 
of  stillness.  Later  in  the  day  light,  fitful  breezes 
finally  pushed  us  through  them  into  the  region 
of  winds  again. 

The  slow  voyage  to  the  Hawaiian  islands — 
on  the  sperm  whale  grounds,  we  cruised  under 
short  sail — might  have  proved  monotonous  if  we 
had  not  been  kept  constantly  busy  and  if  divert- 
ing incidents  had  not  occurred  almost  every  day. 
Once  we  sighted  three  immense  turtles  sunning 
themselves  on  the  sea.  To  the  captain  they  held 
out  prospect  of  soups  and  delicate  dishes  for  the 
cabin  table,  and  with  Long  John  as  boatsteerer, 


54       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

a  boat  was  lowered  for  them.  I  expected  it 
would  be  difficult  to  get  within  darting  distance. 
What  was  my  surprise  to  see  the  turtles,  with 
heads  in  the  air  and  perfectly  aware  of  their  dan- 
ger, remain  upon  the  surface  until  the  boat  was 
directly  upon  them.  The  fact  was  they  could 
not  go  under  quickly;  the  big  shells  kept  them 
afloat.  Long  John  dropped  his  harpoon  crash- 
ing through  the  shell  of  one  of  the  turtles,  flopped 
it  into  the  boat,  and  then  went  on  without  par- 
ticular hurry,  and  captured  the  other  two  in  the 
same  way.  The  cabin  feasted  for  several  days  on 
the  delicate  flesh  of  the  turtles ;  the  forecastle  got 
only  a  savory  smell  from  the  galley,  as  was  usual. 
We  ran  into  a  school  of  porpoises  on  another 
occasion — hundreds  of  them  rolling  and  tumb- 
ling about  the  ship,  like  fat  porkers  on  a  frolic. 
Little  Johnny  took  a  position  on  the  forecastle 
head  with  a  harpoon,  the  line  from  which  had 
been  made  fast  to  the  fore-bitt.  As  a  porpoise 
rose  beneath  him,  he  darted  his  harpoon  straight 
into  its  back.  The  sea  pig  went  wriggling  un- 
der, leaving  the  water  dyed  with  its  blood.  It  was 
hauled  aboard,  squirming  and  twisting.     Little 


TURTLES   AND   PORPOISES      55 

Johnny  harpooned  two  more  before  the  school 
took  fright  and  disappeared.  The  porpoises 
were  cleaned  and  some  of  their  meat,  nicely 
roasted,  was  sent  to  the  forecastle.  It  made  fine 
eating,  tasting  something  like  beef. 

The  steward  was  an  inveterate  fisherman  and 
constantly  kept  a  baited  hook  trailing  in  the  brig's 
wake,  the  line  tied  to  the  taff-rail.  He  caught 
a  great  many  bonitos  and  one  day  landed  a  dol- 
phin. We  had  seen  many  of  these  beautiful  fish 
swimming  about  the  ship — long,  graceful  and 
looking  like  an  animate  streak  of  blue  sky.  The 
steward's  dolphin  was  about  five  feet  long.  I 
had  often  seen  in  print  the  statement  that  dol- 
phins turned  all  colors  of  the  rainbow  in  dying 
and  I  had  as  often  seen  the  assertion  branded 
as  a  mere  figment  of  poetic  imagination.  Our 
dolphin  proved  the  truth  of  the  poetic  tradition. 
As  life  departed,  it  changed  from  blue  to  green, 
bronze,  salmon,  gold,  and  gray,  making  death  as 
beautiful  as  a  gorgeous  kaleidoscope. 

We  saw  flying  fish  every  day — great  "  coveys  " 
of  them,  one  may  say.  They  frequently  flew 
several  hundred  yards,  fluttering  their  webbed 


56       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

side  fins  like  the  wings  of  a  bird,  sometimes  rising 
fifteen  to  twenty  feet  above  the  water,  and  curv- 
ing and  zigzagging  in  their  flight.  More  than 
once  they  flew  directly  across  the  ship  and  sev- 
eral fell  on  deck.  I  was  talking  with  Kaiuli,  the 
Kanaka,  one  night  when  we  heard  a  soft  little 
thud  on  deck.  I  should  have  paid  no  attention 
but  Kaiuli  was  alert  on  the  instant.  "  Flying 
feesh,"  he  cried  zestfully  and  rushed  off  to  search 
the  deck.  He  found  the  fish  and  ate  it  raw. 
smacking  his  lips  over  it  with  great  gusto.  The 
Hawaiian  islanders,  he  told  me,  esteem  raw  fly- 
ing fish  a  great  delicacy. 

I  never  saw  water  so  "  darkly,  deeply,  beauti- 
fully blue  "  as  in  the  middle  of  the  Pacific  where 
we  had  some  four  miles  of  water  under  us.  It 
was  as  blue  as  indigo.  At  night,  the  sea  seemed 
afire  with  riotous  phosphorescence.  White 
flames  leaped  about  the  bows  where  the  brig  cut 
the  water  before  a  fresh  breeze;  the  wake  was  a 
broad,  glowing  path.  When  white  caps  were 
running  every  wave  broke  in  sparks  and  tongues 
of  flame,  and  the  ocean  presented  the  appearance 
of  a   prairie  swept  by  fire.     A  big   shark   came 


TURTLES   AND    PORPOISES      57 

swimming  about  the  ship  one  night  and  it  shone 

like  a  living  incandescence — a  silent,  ghost-like 

shape  slowly  gliding  under  the   brig  and  out 

again. 
The   idle   night  watches  in   the   tropics  were 

great  times  for  story  telling.  The  deep-water 
sailors  were  especially  fond  of  this  way  of  pass- 
ing the  time.  While  the  green  hands  were  en- 
gaging in  desultory  talk  and  wishing  for  the  bell 
to  strike  to  go  back  to  their  bunks,  these  deep- 
water  fellows  would  be  pacing  up  and  down  or 
sitting  on  deck  against  the  bulwarks,  smoking 
their  pipes  and  spinning  yarns  to  each  other. 
The  stories  as  a  rule  wrere  interminable  and  were 
full  of  "  Then  he  says  "  and  "  Then  the  other  fel- 
low says."  It  was  a  poor  story  that  did  not  last 
out  a  four-hour  watch  and  many  of  them  were 
regular  "  continued  in  our  next  "  serials,  being 
cut  short  at  the  end  of  one  watch  to  be  resumed 
in  the  next. 

Xo  matter  how  long-winded  or  prosy  the  nara- 
tive,  the  story  teller  was  always  sure  of  an  au- 
dience whose  attention  never  flagged  for  an  in- 
stant.    The  bovish  delight  of  these   full-grown 


58       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

men  in  stories  amazed  me.  I  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it.  Once  in  a  while  a  tale  was  told 
that  was  worth  listening  to,  but  most  of  them  were 
monotonously  uninteresting.    They  bored  me. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  A,  B,  C  OF  WHALES 

ONE  damp  morning,  with  frequent  showers 
falling  here  and  there  over  the  sea  and  not 
a  drop  wetting  the  brig,   Captain  Win- 
chester suddenly  stopped  pacing  up  and  down 
the  weather  side  of  the  quarter-deck,  threw  his 
head  up  into  the  wind,  and  sniffed  the  air. 

'  There's  sperm  whale  about  as  sure  as  I  live," 
he  said  to  Mr.  Landers.     "  I  smell  'em." 

Mr.  Landers  inhaled  the  breeze  through  his 
nose  in  jerky  little  sniffs. 

"  Xo  doubt  about  it,"  he  replied.  "  You  could 
cut  the  smell  with  a  knife." 

I  was  at  the  wheel  and  overheard  this  talk.  I 
smiled.  These  old  sea  dogs.  I  supposed,  were 
having  a  little  joke.  The  skipper  saw  the  grin 
on  my  face. 

59 


60       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

"  Humph,  you  don't  believe  I  smell  whale, 
eh?"  he  said.  "I  can  smell  whale  like  a  bird 
dog  smells  quail.  Take  a  sniff  at  the  wind. 
Can't  you  smell  it  yourself?  " 

I  gave  a  few  hopeful  sniffs. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  smell  anything  unless, 
perhaps,  salt  water." 

"  You've  got  a  poor  smeller,"  returned  the  cap- 
tain. "  The  wind  smells  rank  and  oily.  That 
means  sperm  whale.  If  I  couldn't  smell  it,  I 
could  taste  it.  I'll  give  you  a  plug  of  tobacco, 
if  we  don't  raise  sperm  before  dark." 

He  didn't  have  to  pay  the  tobacco.  Within 
an  hour,  we  raised  a  sperm  whale  spouting  far 
to  windward  and  traveling  in  the  same  direction 
as  the  brig.  The  captain  hurried  to  the  cabin 
for  his  binoculars.  As  he  swung  himself  into  the 
shrouds  to  climb  to  the  mast-head,  he  shouted  to 
me,  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  could  smell  'em?  "  The 
watch  was  called.  The  crew  of  the  captain's 
boat  was  left  to  work  the  ship  and  Mr.  Landers 
and  Gabriel  lowered  in  the  larboard  and  waist 
boats.  Sails  were  run  up  and  we  went  skimming 
away  on  our  first  whale  hunt.     We  had  a  long 


THE  A,   B,   C,  OF    WHALES      Gl 

beat  to  windward  ahead  of  us  and  as  the  whale 
was  moving  along  at  fair  speed,  remaining  below 
fifteen  minutes  or  so  between  spouts,  it  was  slow 
work  cutting  down  the  distance  that  separated 
us  from  it. 

"  See  how  dat  spout  slant  up  in  de  air?"  re- 
marked old  Gabriel  whom  the  sight  of  our  first 
sperm  had  put  in  high  good  humor. 

We  looked  to  where  the  whale  was  blowing 
and  saw  its  fountain  shoot  into  the  air  diagonally, 
tufted  with  a  cloudy  spread  of  vapor  at  the  top. 

"  You  know  why  it  don't  shoot  straight  up?" 

No  one  knew. 

"  Dat  feller's  blow  hole  in  de  corner  ob  his 
square  head — dat's  why,"  said  Gabriel.  "  He 
blow  his  fountain  out  in  front  of  him.  Ain't  no 
udder  kind  o'  whale  do  dat.  All  de  udder  kind 
blow  straight  up.  All  de  differ  in  de  worl'  be- 
tween dat  sperm  whale  out  dere  and  de  bowhead 
and  right  whale  up  nort'.  Ain't  shaped  nothin' 
a-tall  alike.  Bowhead  and  right  whale  got  big 
curved  heads  and  big  curved  backs.  Sperm 
whale's  about  one-third  bead  and  his  back  ain't 
got  no  bow  to  it — not  much — jest  lies  straight 


62       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

out  behind  his  head.  He  look  littler  in  de  water 
dan  de  right  and  bowhead  whale.  But  he  ain't. 
He's  as  big  as  de  biggest  whale  dat  swims  de  sea. 
I've  seen  a  150  barrel  sperm  dat  measure  seventy 
feet. 

"Blow!"  added  the  old  negro  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  whale  spouting  again. 

"  Bowhead  and  right  whale  got  no  teeth,"  he 
continued.  "  Dey  got  only  long  slabs  o'  baleen 
hung  wit'  hair  in  de  upper  jaw.  Sperm  whale 
got  teeth  same  as  you  and  me — about  twenty  on 
a  side  and  all  in  his  lower  jaw.  Ain't  got  no 
teeth  in  his  upper  jaw  a-tall.  His  mouth  is  white 
inside  and  his  teeth  stand  up  five  or  six  inches 
out  o'  his  gums  and  are  wide  apart  and  sharp 
and  pointed  and  look  jes'  like  de  teeth  of  a  saw. 
Wen  he  open  his  mouth,  his  lower  jaw  fall 
straight  down  and  his  mouth's  big  enough  to 
take  a  whale  boat  inside. 

"  Sperm  whale's  fightin'  whale.  He  fight  wit' 
his  tail  and  his  teeth.  He  knock  a  boat  out  de 
water  wit'  his  flukes  and  he  scrunch  it  into  kind- 
lin'  wood  wit'  his  teeth.  He's  got  fightin'  sense 
too — he's  sly  as  a  fox.     Wen  T  was  young  fel- 


THE  A,   B,   C,  OF    WHALES      63 

ler,  I  was  in  de  sperm  trade  mysel'  and  used  to 
ship  out  o'  New  Bedford  round  Cape  o'  Good 
Hope  for  sperm  whale  ground  in  Indian  Ocean 
and  Sout'  Pacific.  Once  I  go  on  top  a  sperm 
whale  in  a  boat  an'  he  turn  flukes  and  lash  out 
wit'  his  tail  but  miss  us.  Den  he  bring  up  his 
old  head  and  take  a  squint  back  at  us  out  o'  his 
foxy  little  eye  and  begin  to  slew  his  body  roun' 
till  he  get  his  tail  under  de  boat.  But  de  boat- 
header  too  smart  fer  him  and  we  stern  oars  and 
get  out  o'  reach.  But  de  whale  didn't  know  we 
done  backed  out  o'  reach  and  w'en  he  bring  up 
dat  tail  it  shoot  out  o'  de  water  like  it  was  shot 
out  o'  a  cannon.  Mighty  fine  fer  us  he  miss  us 
dat  time. 

"  But  dat  don't  discourage  dat  whale  a-tall. 
He  swim  round  and  slew  round  and  sight  at  us 
out  o'  his  eye  and  at  las'  he  get  under  de  boat. 
Den  he  lift  it  on  de  tip  o'  his  tail  sky-high  and 
pitch  us  all  in  de  water.  Dat  was  jes'  what  he 
been  working  for.  He  swim  away  and  turn  round 
and  come  shootin'  back  straight  fer  dat  boat  and 
w'en  he  get  to  it,  he  crush  it  wit'  his  teeth  and 
chew  it  up  and  shake  his  head  like  a  mad  bulldog 


64       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

until  dere  warn't  nothin'  left  of  dat  boat  but  a 
lot  o'  kindlin'  wood.  But  dat  warn't  all.  He 
swim  to  a  man  who  wuz  lying  across  an  oar  to 
keep  afloat  and  he  chew  dat  man  up  and  spit 
him  out  in  liT  pieces  and  we  ain't  never  see 
nothin'  o'  dat  feller  again. 

"  Guess  that  whale  was  goin'  to  give  us  all  de 
same  medicine,  but  he  ain't  have  time.  De  ud- 
der boats  come  up  and  fill  him  full  o'  harpoons 
and  keep  stickin'  der  lances  into  him  and  kill 
him  right  where  he  lays  and  he  never  had  no 
chance  to  scoff  the  rest  o'  us.  But  if  it  ain't  fer 
dem  boats,  I  guess  dat  feller  eat  us  all  jes'  like 
plum  duff.  Sperm  whale,  some  fighter,  believe 
me. 

"Dere  he  white  waters — blow!"  added  Gab- 
riel as  the  whale  came  to  the  surface  again. 

"  Sperm  whale  try  out  de  bes'  oil,"  the  garru- 
lous old  whaleman  went  on.  "  Bowhead  and 
right  whale  got  thicker  blubber  and  make  more 
oil,  but  sperm  whale  oil  de  bes'.  He  got  big 
cistern— what  dey  call  a  '  case ' — in  de  top  ob 
his  head  and  it's  full  o'  spermaceti,  sloshing  about 
in  dere  and  jes'  as  clear  as  water.     His  old  head 


THE  A,   B,   C,  OF    WHALES      65 

is  always  cut  off  and  hoist  on  deck  to  bale  out 
dat  case.  Many  times  dey  find  ambergrease 
(ambergis)  floating  beside  a  dead  sperm  whale. 
It's  solid  and  yellowish  and  stuck  full  o'  cuttle 
feesh  beaks  dat  de  whale's  done  swallowed  but 
ain't  digest.  Dey  makes  perfume  out  o'  dat  am- 
bergrease and  it's  worth  its  weight  in  gold.  I've 
offen  seen  it  in  chunks  dat  weighed  a  hundred 
pounds. 

"  You  see  a  sperm  whale  ain't  eat  nothin'  but 
cuttle  feesh — giant  squid,  dey  calls  'em,  or  devil 
feesh.  Dey  certainly  is  terrible  fellers —  is  dem 
devil  feesh.  Got  arms  twenty  or  thirty  feet  long 
wit'  sucking  discs  all  over  'em  and  a  big  fat  body 
in  de  middle  ob  dese  snaky  arms,  wit'  big  pop- 
eyes  as  big  as  water  buckets  and  a  big  black  beak 
like  a  parrot's  to  tear  its  food  wit'.  Dose  devil 
feesh  live  at  rip  bottom  of  de  Sea.  But 
sperm  whale  nose  'em  out  and  eat  'em.  Some 
time  dey  comes  to  de  top  and  de  whale  and  de 
cuttle  feesh  fights  it  out.  I've  hearn  old  whal- 
ers say  dey  seen  fights  between  sperm  whale  and 
cuttle  feesh  but  I  ain't  never  seen  dat  and  I 
reckon  mighty  few  fellers  ever  did.     But  when 


66       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

a  sperm  whale  is  killed,  he  spews  out  chunks  o' 
cuttle  feesh  and  I've  seen  de  water  about  a  dead 
sperm  thick  wit'  white  chunks  of  cuttle  feesh  as 
big  as  a  sea  ches'  and  wit'  de  suckin'  disc  still 
on  'em. 

"  Blow ! "  said  Gabriel  again  with  his  eyes  on 
the  whale.     "  Dat  feesh  certainly  some  traveler." 

We  were  hauling  closer  to  the  whale.  I  could 
see  it  distinctly  by  this  time  and  could  note  how 
square  and  black  its  head  was.  Its  appearance 
might  be  compared  not  inaptly  to  a  box-car  glis- 
tening in  the  sun  under  a  fresh  coat  of  black 
paint.  It  did  not  cut  the  water  but  pushed  it  in 
white  foam  in  front  of  it. 

"  Sperm  pretty  scarce  nowadays,"  Gabriel  re- 
sumed. "  Nothing  like  as  plentiful  in  Pacific 
waters  as  dey  used  to  be  in  de  ole  days.  Whalers 
done  pretty  well  thinned  'em  out.  But  long 
ago,  it  used  to  be  nothin'  to  see  schools  of  a 
hundred,  mostly  cows  wit'  three  or  four  big  bulls 
among  'em." 

"  Any  difference  between  a  bowhead  and  a 
right  whale?"  some  one  asked. 

"  O     good    Lord,     yes,"     answered     Gabriel. 


THE  A,  B,  C,  OF  WHALES       67 

"  Big  difference.  Right  whale  thinner  whale  dan 
a  bowhead,  ain't  got  sech  thick  blubber  neither. 
He's  quicker  in  de  water  and  got  nothin'  like 
such  long  baleen.  You  ketch  right  whale  in 
Behring  Sea.  I  ain't  never  see  none  in  de  Arc- 
tic Ocean.  You  ketch  bowhead  both  places. 
Right  whale  flghtin'  feesh,  too,  but  he  ain't  so 
dangerous  as  a  sperm." 

Let  me  add  that  I  give  this  statement  of  the 
old  whaleman  for  what  it  is  worth.  All  books 
I  have  ever  read  on  the  subject  go  on  the  theory 
that  the  Greenland  or  right  whale  is  the  same 
animal  as  the  bowhead.  We  lowered  for  a  right 
whale  later  in  the  voyage  in  Behring  Sea.  To 
my  untrained  eyes,  it  looked  like  a  bowhead 
which  we  encountered  every  few  days  while  on 
the  Arctic  Ocean  whaling  grounds.  But  there 
was  no  doubt  or  argument  about  it  among  the 
old  whalemen  aboard.  To  them  it  was  a  "  right 
whale "  and  nothing  else.  Old  Gabriel  may 
have  known  what  he  was  talking  about.  De- 
spite the  naturalists,  whalers  certainly  make  a 
pronounced  distinction. 

By  the  time  Gabriel  had  imparted  all  this  in- 


68       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

formation,  we  had  worked  to  within  a  half  mile 
of  our  whale  which  was  still  steaming  along  at 
the  rate  of  knots.  They  say  a  sperm  whale  has 
ears  so  small  they  are  scarcely  detected,  but  it 
has  a  wonderfully  keen  sense  of  hearing  for  all 
that.  Our  whale  must  have  heard  us  or  seen  us. 
At  any  rate  it  bade  us  a  sudden  goodbye  and 
scurried  off  unceremoniously  over  the  rim  of  the 
world.  The  boats  kept  on  along  the  course  it 
was  heading  for  over  an  hour,  but  the  whale  never 
again  favored  us  with  so  much  as  a  distant  spout. 
Finally  signals  from  the  brig's  mast-head  sum- 
moned us  aboard. 

As  the  men  had  had  no  practice  in  the  boats 
before,  both  boats  lowered  sail  and  we  started  to 
row  back  to  the  vessel.  We  had  pulled  about 
a  mile  when  Mendez,  who  was  acting  as  boat- 
steerer,  said  quietly,  "Blow!  Blackflsh  dead 
ahead." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  replied  Gabriel.  "  Xow  stand 
by,  Tomas.  I'll  jes'  lay  you  aboard  one  o'  dem 
blackfeesh  and  we'll  teach  dese  green  fellers 
somethin'  'bout  whalin'." 

There  were  about  fifty  blackflsh  in  the  school. 


THE  A,   B,    C,  OF    WHALES      69 

They  are  a  species  of  small  toothed  whale,  from 
ten  to  twenty  feet  long,  eight  or  ten  feet  in  cir- 
cumference and  weighing  two  or  three  tons. 
They  were  gamboling  and  tumbling  like  por- 
poises. Their  black  bodies  flashed  above  the  sur- 
face in  undulant  curves  and  I  wondered  if,  when 
seen  at  a  distance,  these  little  cousins  of  the  sperm 
had  not  at  some  time  played  their  part  in  estab- 
lishing the  myth  of  the  sea  serpent. 

"  Get  ready,  Tomas,"  said  Gabriel  as  we  drew 
near  the  school. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  responded  Mendez. 

Pulling  away  as  hard  as  we  could,  we  shot 
among  the  blackfish.  Mendez  selected  a  big  one 
and  drove  his  harpoon  into  its  back.  Almost  at 
the  same  time  Mr.  Lander's  boat  became  fast  to 
another.  Our  fish  plunged  and  reared  half  out 
of  water,  rolled  and  splashed  about,  finally  shot 
around  in  a  circle  and  died.  Mr.  Lander's  fish 
was  not  fatally  hit  and  when  it  became  apparent 
it  would  run  away  with  a  tub  of  line,  Little 
Johnny,  the  boatsteerer,  cut  adrift  and  let  it  go. 
Mendez  cut  our  harpoon  free  and  left  our  fish 
weltering  on  the  water.     Blackfish  yield  a  fairlv 


70       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

good  quality  of  oil,  but  one  was  too  small  a  catch 
to  potter  with.  Our  adventure  among  the  black- 
fish  was  merely  practice  for  the  boat  crews  to 
prepare  them  for  future  encounters  with  the 
monarchs  of  the  deep. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE   NIGHT   KING 


THE  crew  called  Tomas  Mendez,  the  acting 
third  mate,  the  "  Night  King."  I  have 
forgotten  what  forecastle  poet  fastened  the 
name  upon  him,  hut  it  fitted  like  a  glove.  In 
the  day  watches  when  the  captain  and  mate  were 
on  deck,  he  was  only  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  little 
negro,  insignificant  in  size  and  with  a  had  case 
of  rheumatism.  But  at  night  when  the  other  of- 
ficers were  snoring  in  their  hunks  below  and  the 
destinies  of  the  brig  were  in  his  hands,  he  be- 
came an  autocrat  who  ruled  with  a  hand  of 
iron. 

Tie  was  as  black  as  a  bowhead's  skin — a  lean, 
scrawny,  sinewy  little  man,  stooped  about  the 
shoulders  and  walking  with  a  slight  limp.     His 

countenance  was  imperious.     His  lips  were  thin 

71 


72       A    YEAH    WITH    A    WHALER 

and  cruel.  His  eyes  were  sharp  and  sinister. 
His  ebony  skin  was  drawn  so  tightly  over  the 
frame-work  of  his  face  that  it  almost  seemed  as 
if  it  would  crack  when  he  smiled.  His  nose  had 
a  domineering  Roman  curve.  He  carried  his 
head  high.  In  profile,  this  little  blackamoor 
suggested  the  mummied  head  of  some  old  Pha- 
roah. 

He  was  a  native  of  the  Cape  Verde  islands. 
He  spoke  English  with  the  liquid  burr  of  a  Latin. 
His  native  tongue  was  Portuguese.  No  glim- 
mer of  education  relieved  his  mental  darkness. 
It  was  as  though  his  outside  color  went  all  the 
way  through.  He  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
but  he  was  a  good  sailor  and  no  better  whaleman 
ever  handled  a  harpoon  or  laid  a  boat  on  a  whale's 
back.  For  twenty  years  he  had  been  sailing  as 
boatsteerer  on  whale  ships,  and  to  give  the  devil 
his  due,  he  had  earned  a  name  for  skill  and 
courage  in  a  thousand  adventures  among  sperm, 
bowhead,  and  right  whales  in  tropical  and  frozen 
seas. 

My  first  impression  of  the  Night  King  stands 
out  in  my  memory  with  cameo  distinctness.     In 


4* 


}M . 


THE   NIGHT   KING  73 

the  bustle  and  confusion  of  setting  sails,  just  af- 
ter the  tug  had  cut  loose  from  us  outside  Golden 
Gate  heads,  I  saw  Mendez,  like  an  ebony  statue, 
standing  in  the  waist  of  the  ship,  an  arm  rest- 
ing easily  on  the  bulwarks,  singing  out  orders 
in  a  clear,  incisive  voice  that  had  in  it  the  ring 
of  steel. 

When  I  shipped,  it  had  not  entered  my  mind 
that  any  but  white  men  would  be  of  the  ship's 
company.  It  was  with  a  shock  like  a  blow  in  the 
face  that  I  saw  this  little  colored  man  singing 
out  orders.  I  wondered  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way 
if  he  was  to  be  in  authority  over  me.  I  was  not 
long  in  doubt.  When  calm  had  succeeded  the 
first  confusion  and  the  crew  had  been  divided 
into  watches,  Captain  Winchester  announced 
from  the  break  of  the  poop  that  "  Mr."  Mendez 
would  head  the  port  watch.  That  was  my 
watch.  While  the  captain  was  speaking,  "  Mr." 
Mendez  stood  like  a  black  Xapoleon  and  sur- 
veyed us  long  and  silently.  Then  suddenly  he 
snapped  out  a  decisive  order  and  the  white  men 
jumped  to  obey.  The  Night  King  had  assumed 
his  throne. 


74       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  Night  King  and  I  disliked  each  other  from 
the  start.  It  may  seem  petty  now  that  it's  all 
past,  but  I  raged  impotently  in  the  bitterness  of 
outraged  pride  at  being  ordered  about  by  this 
black  overlord  of  the  quarter-deck.  He  was  not 
slow  to  discover  my  smoldering  resentment  and 
came  to  hate  me  with  a  cordiality  not  far  from 
classic.  He  kept  me  busy  with  some  silly  job 
when  the  other  men  were  smoking  their  pipes 
and  spinning  yarns.  If  I  showed  the  left-hand- 
edness  of  a  landlubber  in  sailorizing  he  made  me 
stay  on  deck  my  watch  below  to  learn  the  ropes. 
If  there  was  dirt  or  litter  to  be  shoveled  over- 
board, he  sang  out  for  me. 

"  Clean  up  dat  muck  dere,  you,"  he  would  say 
with  fine  contempt. 

The  climax  of  his  petty  tyrannies  came  one 
night  on  the  run  to  Honolulu  when  he  charged 
me  with  some  trifling  infraction  of  ship's  rules, 
of  which  I  was  not  guilty,  and  ordered  me  aloft 
to  sit  out  the  watch  on  the  fore  yard.  The  yard 
was  broad,  the  night  was  warm,  the  ship  was  trav- 
eling on  a  steady  keel,  and  physically  the  pun- 
ishment was  no  punishment  at  all.     There  was 


THE   NIGHT   KING  75 

no  particular  ignominy  in  the  thing,  either,  for 
it  was  merely  a  joke  to  the  sailors.  The  sting  of 
it  was  in  having  to  take  such  treatment  from  this 
small  colored  person  without  being  able  to  resent 
it  or  help  myself. 

The  very  next  morning  I  was  awakened  by 
the  cry  of  the  lookout  on  the  topsail  yard. 

"Blow!  Blow!  There's  his  old  head. 
Bio — o-'-o — w!  There  he  ripples.  There  goes 
flukes."  Full-lunged  and  clear,  the  musical  cry 
came  from  aloft  like  a  song  with  little  yodling 
breaks  in  the  measure.  It  was  the  view-halloo 
of  the  sea,  and  it  quickened  the  blood  and  set 
the  nerves  tingling. 

"  Where  away?  "  shouted  the  captain,  rushing 
from  the  cabin  with  his  binoculars. 

'  Two  points  on  the  weather  bow,  sir,"  re- 
turned the  lookout. 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  an 
expanse  of  yeasty  sea.  Suddenly  into  the  air 
shot  a  fountain  of  white  water — slender,  grace- 
ful, spreading  into  a  bush  of  spray  at  the  top. 
xV  great  sperm  was  disporting  among  the  white 
caps. 


76       A    YEAR    WITH  A    WHALER 

"  Call  all  hands  and  clear  away  the  boats," 
yelled  the  captain. 

Larboard  and  waist  boats  were  lowered  from 
the  davits.  Their  crews  scrambled  over  the  ship's 
side,  the  leg-o'-mutton  sails  were  hoisted,  and  the 
boats,  bending  over  as  the  wind  caught  them, 
sped  away  on  the  chase.  The  Night  King  went 
as  boatsteerer  of  the  waist  boat.  I  saw  him 
smiling  to  himself  as  he  shook  the  kinks  out  of  his 
tub-line  and  laid  his  harpoons  in  position  in  the 
bows — harpoons  with  no  bomb-guns  attached  to 
the  spear-shanks. 

In  the  distance,  a  slow  succession  of  fountains 
gleamed  in  the  brilliant  tropical  sunshine  like 
crystal  lamps  held  aloft  on  fairy  pillars.  Sud- 
denly the  tell-tale  beacons  of  spray  went  out. 
The  whale  had  sounded.  Over  the  sea,  the  boats 
quartered  like  baffled  foxhounds  to  pick  up  the 
lost  trail. 

Between  the  ship  and  the  boats,  the  whale 
came  quietly  to  the  surface  at  last  and  lay  per- 
fectly still,  taking  its  ease,  sunning  itself  and 
spouting  lazily.  The  captain,  perched  in  the 
ship's  cross-trees,  signalled  its  position  with  flags, 


THE   NIGHT  KING  77 

using  a  code  familiar  to  whalemen.  The  Night 
King  caught  the  message  first.  He  turned 
quickly  to  the  boatheader  at  the  tiller  and 
pointed.  Instantly  the  boat  came  about,  the  sail- 
ors shifted  from  one  gunwale  to  the  other,  the 
big  sail  swung  squarely  out  and  filled.  All  hands 
settled  themselves  for  the  run  to  close  quarters. 
With  thrilling  interest,  I  watched  the  hunt 
from  the  ship's  forward  bulwarks,  where  I  stood 
grasping  a  shroud  to  prevent  pitching  overboard. 
Down  a  long  slant  of  wind,  the  boat  ran  free  with 
the  speed  of  a  greyhound,  a  white  plume  of  spray 
standing  high  on  either  bow.  The  Night  King 
stood  alert  and  cool,  one  foot  on  the  bow  seat, 
balancing  a  harpoon  in  his  hands.  The  white 
background  of  the  bellying  sail  threw  his  tense 
figure  into  relief.  Swiftly,  silently,  the  boat 
stole  upon  its  quarry  until  but  one  long  sea  lay 
between.  It  rose  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave  and 
poised  there  for  an  instant  like  some  great  white- 
winged  bird  of  prey.  Then  sweeping  down  the 
green  slope,  it  struck  the  whale  bows-on  and 
beached  its  keel  out  of  the  water  on  its  glistening 
back.     As  it  struck,  the  Night  King  let  fly  one 


78       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

harpoon  and  another,  driving  them  home  up  to 
the  wooden  hafts  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
lithe  arms. 

The  sharp  bite  of  the  iron  in  its  vitals  stirred 
the  titanic  mass  of  flesh  and  blood  from  perfect 
stillness  into  a  frenzy  of  sudden  movement  that 
churned  the  water  of  the  sea  into  white  froth. 
The  great  head  went  under,  the  giant  back  curved 
down  like  the  whirling  surface  of  some  mighty 
fly-wheel,  the  vast  flukes,  like  some  black  demon's 
arm,  shot  into  the  air.  Left  and  right  and  left 
again,  the  great  tail  thrashed,  smiting  the  sea 
with  thwacks  which  could  have  been  heard  for 
miles.  It  struck  the  boat  glancingly  with  its  bare 
tip,  yet  the  blow  stove  a  great  hole  in  the  bottom 
timbers,  lifted  the  wreck  high  in  air,  and  sent  the 
sailors  sprawling  into  the  sea.  Then  the  whale 
sped  away  with  the  speed  of  a  limited  express. 
It  had  not  been  vitally  wounded.  Over  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  it  passed  out  of  sight,  blowing  up 
against  the  sky  fountains  of  clear  water  unmixed 
with  blood. 

The  other  boat  hurried  to  the  rescue  and  the 
crew    gathered    up    the    half-drowned    sailors 


THE   NIGHT   KING  79 

perched  on  the  hottom  of  the  upturned  boat  or 
clinging  to  floating  sweeps.  Fouled  in  the  rig- 
ging of  the  sail,  held  suspended  beneath  the 
wreck  in  the  green  crystal  of  the  sea  water,  they 
found  the  Night  King,  dead. 

When  the  whale  crushed  the  boat — at  the  very 
moment,  it  must  have  been — the  Night  King  had 
snatched  the  knife  kept  fastened  in  a  sheath  on 
the  bow  thwart  and  with  one  stroke  of  the  razor 
blade,  severed  the  harpoon  lines.  lie  thus  re- 
leased the  whale  and  prevented  it  from  dragging 
the  boat  away  in  its  mad  race.  The  Night 
King's  last  act  had  saved  the  lives  of  his  com- 
panions.     k 

I  helped  lift  the  body  over  the  rail.  We  laid 
it  on  the  quarter  deck  near  the  skylight.  It 
lurched  and  shifted  in  a  ghastly  sort  of  way  as 
the  ship  rolled,  the  glazed  eyes  open  to  the  blue 
sky.  The  captain's  Newfoundland  dog  came 
and  sniffed  at  the  corpse.  Sheltered  from  the 
captain's  eye  behind  the  galley,  the  Kanaka  cabin 
boy  shook  a  furtive  fist  at  the  dead  man  and 
ground  out  between  clenched  teeth,  "  You  black 
devil,  you'll  never  kick  me  again."    Standing  not 


80       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

ten  feet  away,  the  mate  cracked  a  joke  to  the 
second  mate  and  the  two  laughed  uproariously. 
The  work  of  the  ship  went  on  all  around. 

Looking  upon  the  dead  thing  lying  there,  I 
thought  of  the  pride  with  which  the  living  man 
had  borne  himself  in  the  days  of  his  power.  I 
beheld  in  fancy  the  silent,  lonely,  imperious  lit- 
tle figure,  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  weather  side 
of  the  quarter-deck — to  and  fro  under  the  stars. 
I  saw  him  stop  in  the  darkness  by  the  wheel, 
as  his  custom  was,  to  peer  down  into  the  lighted 
binnacle  and  say  in  vibrant  tones,  "  Keep  her 
steady,"  or  "  Let  her  luff."  I  saw  him  buttoned 
up  in  his  overcoat  to  keep  the  dew  of  the  tropical 
night  from  his  rheumatic  joints,  slip  down  the 
poop  ladder  and  stump  forward  past  the  t^- 
works  to  see  how  things  fared  in  the  bow.  Again 
I  heard  his  nightly  cry  to  the  lookout  on  the  fore- 
castle-head, "  Keep  a  bright  lookout  dere,  you," 
and  saw  him  limp  back  to  continue  his  vigil, 
pacing  up  and  down.  The  qualities  that  had 
made  him  hated  when  he  was  indeed  the  Night 
King  flooded  back  upon  me,  but  I  did  not  forget 
the  courage  of  my  enemy   that   had   redeemed 


THE    NIGHT   KING  81 

them  all  and  made  him  a  hero  in  the  hour  of 
death.  , 

In  the  afternoon,  old  Xelson  sat  on  the  deck 
beside  the  corpse  and  with  palm  and  needle  fash- 
ioned a  long  canvas  bag.  Into  this  the  dead  man 
was  sewed  with  a  weight  of  brick  and  sand  at  his 
feet. 

At  sunset,  when  all  hands  were  on  deck  for  the 
dog  watch,  they  carried  the  body  down  on  the 
main  deck  and  with  feet  to  the  sea,  laid  it  on 
the  gang-plank  which  had  been  removed  from 
the  rail.  There  in  the  waist  the  ship's  company 
gathered  with  uncovered  heads.  Over  all  was 
the  light  of  the  sunset,  flushing  the  solemn,  rough 
faces  and  reddening  the  running  white-caps  of 
the  sea.  The  captain  called  me  to  him  and 
placed  a  Bible  in  my  hands. 

"  Head  a  passage  of  scripture,"  he  said. 

Dumbfounded  that  I  should  be  called  upon  to 
officiate  at  the  burial  service  over  the  man  I  had 
hated,  I  took  my  stand  on  the  main  hatch  at 
the  head  of  the  body  and  prepared  to  obey  or- 
ders. No  passage  to  fit  my  singular  situation 
occurred  to  me  and  T  opened  the  book  at  random. 


82       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  leaves  fell  apart  at  the  seventh  chapter  of 
Matthew  and  I  read  aloud  the  section  beginning: 

"  Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.  For  with 
what  judgment  ye  judge,  ye  shall  be  judged; 
and  with  what  measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  meas- 
ured to  you  again." 

At  the  close  of  the  reading  the  captain  called 
for  "  The  Sweet  Bye  and  Bye  "  and  the  crew 
sang  the  verses  of  the  old  hymn  solemnly.  When 
the  full-toned  music  ceased,  two  sailors  tilted  the 
gang-plank  upwards  and  the  remains  of  the 
Night  King  slid  off  and  plunged  into  the  ocean. 

As  the  body  slipped  toward  the  water,  a  Ka- 
naka sailor  caught  up  a  bucket  of  slop  which  he 
had  set  aside  for  the  purpose,  and  dashed  its 
filth  over  the  corpse  from  head  to  foot.  Wide- 
eyed  with  astonishment,  I  looked  to  see  instant 
punishment  visited  upon  this  South  Sea  heathen 
who  so  flagrantly  violated  the  sanctities  of  the 
dead.  But  not  a  hand  was  raised,  not  a  word  of 
disapproval  was  uttered.  The  Kanaka  had  but 
followed  a  whaler's  ancient  custom.  The  part- 
ing insult  to  the  dead  was  meant  to  discourage 
the  ghost  from  ever  coming  back  to  haunt  the 
brig. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DREAMS  OF  LIBERTY 

AT  midnight  after  the  burial,  we  raised  the 
volcanic  fire  of  Mauna  Loa  dead  ahead. 
Sailors  declare  that  a  gale  always  follows 
a  death  at  sea  and  the  wind  that  night  blew  hard. 
But  we  cracked  on  sail  and  next  morning  we 
were  gliding  in  smooth  water  along  the  shore  of 
the  island  of  Hawaii  with  the  great  burning 
mountain  towering  directly  over  us  and  the 
smoke  from  the  crater  swirling  down  through 
our  rigging. 

We  loafed  away  three  pleasant  weeks  among 
the  islands,  loitering  along  the  beautiful  sea 
channels,  merely  killing  time  until  Captain 
Shorey  should  arrive  from  San  Francisco  by 
steamer.  Once  we  sailed  within  distant  view  of 
Molokai.  It  was  as  beautiful  in  its  tropical  ver- 
dure as  any  of  the  other  islands  of  the  group, 

8.3 


84       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

but  its  very  name  was  fraught  with  sinister  and 
tragic  suggestiveness ; — it  was  the  home  of  the 
lepers,  the  island  of  the  Living  Death. 

We  did  not  anchor  at  any  time.  None  of  the 
whaling  fleet  which  meets  here  every  spring  ever 
anchors.  The  lure  of  the  tropical  shores  is  strong 
and  there  would  be  many  desertions  if  the  ships 
lay  in  port.  We  sailed  close  to  shore  in  the  day 
time,  often  entering  Honolulu  harbor,  but  at 
night  we  lay  off  and  on,  as  the  sailor  term  is — 
that  is  we  tacked  off  shore  and  back  again,  rarely 
venturing  closer  than  two  or  three  miles,  a  dis- 
tance the  hardiest  swimmer,  bent  upon  desertion, 
would  not  be  apt  to  attempt  in  those  shark- 
haunted  waters. 

Many  attempts  to  escape  from  vessels  of  the 
whaling  fleet  occur  in  the  islands  every  year.  We 
heard  many  yarns  of  these  adventures.  A  week 
before  we  arrived,  five  sailors  had  overpowered 
the  night  watch  aboard  their  ship  and  escaped  to 
shore  in  a  whale  boat.  The}7  were  captured  in 
the  hills  back  of  Honolulu  and  returned  to  their 
vessel.     This  is  usually  the  fate  of  runaways.   A 


DREAMS   OF   LIBERTY  85 

standing  reward  of  $25  a  man  is  offered  by  whal- 
ing ships  for  the  capture  and  return  of  deserters, 
consequently  all  the  natives  of  the  islands,  es- 
pecially the  police,  are  constantly  on  the  lookout 
for  runaways  from  whaling  crews. 

When  we  drew  near  the  islands  the  runaway 
fever  became  epidemic  in  the  forecastle.  Each 
sailor  had  his  own  little  scheme  for  getting  away. 
Big  Taylor  talked  of  knocking  the  officers  of 
the  night  watch  over  the  head  with  a  belaying- 
pin  and  stealing  ashore  in  a  boat.  Ole  Oleson  cut 
up  his  suit  of  oilskins  and  sewed  them  into  two 
air-tight  bags  with  one  of  which  under  each  arm, 
he  proposed  to  float  ashore.  Bill  White,  an 
Englishman,  got  possession  of  a  lot  of  canvas 
from  the  cabin  and  was  clandestinely  busy  for 
days  making  it  into  a  boat  in  which  he  fondly 
hoped  to  paddle  ashore  some  fine  night  in  the 
dark  of  the  moon.  "  Slim,"  our  Irish  grenadier, 
stuffed  half  his  belongings  into  his  long  sea-boots 
which  he  planned  to  press  into  service  both  as 
carry-alls  and  life-preservers.  Peter  Swenson, 
the  forecastle's  baby  boy,  plugged  up  some  big 


86       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

empty  oil  cans  and  made  life  buoys  of  them  by 
fastening  a  number  of  them  together. 

Just  at  the  time  when  the  forecastle  conspi- 
racies were  at  their  height  we  killed  a  thirteen- 
foot  shark  off  Diamond  Head.  Our  catch  was 
one  of  a  school  of  thirty  or  forty  monsters  that 
came  swarming  about  the  brig,  gliding  slowly 
like  gray  ghosts  only  a  few  feet  below  the  sur- 
face, nosing  close  to  the  ship's  side  for  garbage 
and  turning  slightly  on  their  sides  to  look  out  of 
their  evil  eyes  at  the  sailors  peering  down  upon 
them  over  the  rail.  Long  John,  the  boat-steerer, 
got  out  a  harpoon,  and  standing  on  the  bulwarks 
shot  the  iron  up  to  the  wooden  haft  into  the 
back  of  one  of  the  sharks,  the  spear-point  of  the 
weapon  passing  through  the  creature  and  stick- 
ing out  on  the  under  side.  The  stout  manila 
hemp  attached  to  the  harpoon  had  been  made 
fast  to  the  fore  bitt.  It  was  well  that  this  was 
so,  for  the  shark  plunged  and  fought  with  terrific 
fury,  lashing  the  sea  into  white  froth.  But  the 
harpoon  had  pierced  a  vital  part  and  in  a  little 
while  the  great  fish  ceased  its  struggles  and  lay 
still,  belly  up  on  the  surface. 


DREAMS    OF   LIBERTY  87 

It  was  hauled  close  alongside,  and  a  boat  hav- 
ng  been  lowered,  a  large  patch  of  the  shark's 
skin  was  cut  off.  Then  the  carcass  was  cut 
adrift.  The  skin  was  as  rough  as  sandpaper.  It 
was  cut  into  small  squares,  which  were  used  in 
scouring  metal  and  for  all  the  polishing  purposes 
for  which  sandpaper  serves  ashore. 

Life  aboard  the  brig  seemed  less  intolerable 
thereafter,  and  an  essay  at  escape  through 
waters  infested  by  such  great,  silent,  ravenous 
sea-wolves  seemed  a  hazard  less  desirable  than 
before.  Taylor  talked  no  more  about  slugging 
the  night  watch.  Slim  unpacked  his  sea-boots 
and  put  his  effects  back  into  his  chest.  Peter 
threw  Ills  plugged  oil  cans  overboard.  Bill 
White  turned  his  canvas  boat  into  curtains  for 
his  bunk,  and  Ole  Oleson  voiced  in  the  lilting 
measure  of  Scandinavia  his  deep  regret  that  he 
had  cut  up  a  valuable  suit  of  oil-skins. 

The  captain  of  one  of  the  whaling  ships  came 
one  afternoon  to  visit  our  skipper  and  his  small 
boat  was  left  dragging  in  our  wake  as  the  brig 
skimmed  along  under  short  sail.  It  occurred  to 
me,  and  at  the  same  time  to  mv  two  Kanaka 


88       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

shipmates,  that  here  was  a  fine  opportunity  to 
escape.  It  was  coming  on  dusk,  and  if  we  could 
get  into  the  boat  and  cut  loose  we  might  have  a 
splendid  chance  to  get  awa}^.  The  Kanakas  and 
I  climbed  over  the  bow,  intending  to  let  our- 
selves into  the  sea  and  drift  astern  to  the  boat, 
but  the  breeze  had  freshened  and  the  brig  was 
traveling  so  fast  we  did  not  believe  we  could 
catch  the  boat;  and  if  we  failed  to  do  so,  we 
might  confidently  expect  the  sharks  to  finish  us. 
We  abandoned  the  plan  after  we  had  remained 
squatting  on  the  stays  over  the  bow  for  a  half 
hour  considering  our  chances  and  getting  soaked 
to  the  skin  from  the  dashing  spray. 

A  pathetic  incident  grew  out  of  the  visit  of 
the  captain  from  the  other  ship.  Tomas  Men- 
dez's  brother,  a  boat-steerer,  came  aboard  with 
the  boat's  crew.  He  was  a  young  negro  whom 
all  the  boat-steerers  and  officers  knew.  He  came 
swinging  lightly  over  our  rail,  laughing  and 
happy  over  the  prospect  of  seeing  his  brother. 

"  Hello,  fellers,"  he  called  to  the  Portuguese 
officers  and  boat-steerers  who  welcomed  him. 
"Where's  my  brudder?" 


DREAMS    OF    LIBERTY  89 

"  Dead,  my  boy,"  said  one  of  the  boat-steerers 
gently. 

"Dead?"  echoed  Mendez. 

He  staggered  back.  When  he  had  heard  the 
details  of  his  brother's  death,  he  burst  into  tears. 
All  the  time  his  skipper  remained  aboard,  the 
poor  fellow  stood  by  the  cooper's  bench  and 
sobbed. 

While  drifting  at  the  mouth  of  Honolulu  har- 
bor one  morning,  Captain  Winchester  called  for 
a  boat's  crew  to  row  him  ashore.  All  hands 
wanted  to  go.  I  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones  to 
be  chosen.  The  morning  was  calm  and  beau- 
tiful, the  water  was  smooth,  and  we  pulled  away 
with  a  will. 

The  city  looked  inviting  at  the  foot  of  its 
green  mountains,  its  quaint  houses  embowered  in 
tropical  foliage.  On  our  starboard  beam  rose 
the  fine,  bold  promontory  of  Diamond  Head, 
and  in  between  the  headland  and  the  city  lay 
Waikiki,  the  fashionable  bathing  beach.  We 
could  see  the  bathers  taking  the  surf  in  the 
bright  morning  sunlight,  while  beyond  stretched 
a  delectable  wooded  country,  above  the  tops  of 


90       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

whose  trees  peeped  manors  and  villas  of  wealthy 
eitizens. 

We  reached  the  long  pier  at  last  and  tied  up 
the  boat.  While  the  captain  went  into  the  city 
the  sailors  remained  on  the  dock  in  charge  of 
Long  John,  the  boat-steerer.  Three  snaky-eyed 
Kanaka  policemen  in  blue  uniforms  hung  about, 
watching  our  every  movement.  We  were  not 
allowed  to  stir  off  the  dock.  There  was  a  street 
corner  within  a  stone's  throw.  A  little  red  brick 
store  stood  upon  it.  A  lazy  Kanaka  lounged 
against  the  building,  smoking  a  cigarette.  That 
corner  fascinated  me.  If  I  only  could  dodge 
around  it!  How  near  it  seemed,  and  yet  how 
unattainable! 

But  if  we  sailormen  could  not  get  into  town, 
we  at  least  had  the  freedom  of  the  long  pier. 
This  was  several  hundred  feet  long  and  piled 
thick  with  freight  of  all  descriptions,  which  shut 
its  harbor  end  from  view.  With  a  casual  and 
indifferent  air  I  sauntered  out  along  the  pier. 
In  a  moment  I  was  hidden  behind  the  merchan- 
dise   from    the    unsuspecting    Long    John    and 


DREAMS   OF   LIBERTY  91 

the  policemen.  I  soon  readied  the  harbor  end. 
I  saw  that  a  sharp  curve  in  the  shore  line  brought 
the  part  of  the  pier  on  which  I  was  standing  close 
to  land.  It  seemed  easy  to  dive  off  the  pier,  swim 
past  a  big  four-masted  English  ship  unloading 
alongside,  gain  the  land,  and  escape  to  the  cane 
fields  which  swept  up  to  the  edge  of  the  city. 

I  sat  down  behind  some  freight  and  began  to 
take  off  my  shoes.  I  had  one  off  when  a  bare- 
footed Kanaka  suddenly  stepped  into  view  from 
behind  a  pile  of  bales  and  boxes.  He  was  tip- 
toeing and  peering  about  him  furtively.  I  knew 
him  for  a  spy  instantly.  Directly  he  saw  me 
staring  at  him  he  looked  as  guilty  as  one  taken 
in  crime,  and  slunk  away  sheepishly.  I  knew  he 
was  on  his  way  to  inform  on  me  and  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  get  my  clothes  wet  by  any  hopeless 
attempt  to  run  away. 

I  put  my  shoe  back  on  and  strolled  back  to- 
ward the  boat.  I  saw  one  of  my  shipmates — it 
was  Richard,  the  deep-water  German  sailor — 
walking  up  the  gangplank  of  the  English  ship 
alongside  the  dock.    T  followed  him.     When  we 


92       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

reached  the  deck,  we  saw  a  gang  of  sailors  work- 
ing about  an  open  hatch. 

"  Hello,  mates,"  said  Richard.  "  We  are  mer- 
chant seamen  and  want  to  clear  out  from  a 
blooming  whaler.     Stow  us  away,  won't  you?" 

The  sailors  didn't  seem  to  take  kindly  to  the 
proposition.  Perhaps  they  were  afraid  of  get- 
ting into  trouble.  But  they  told  us  we  might  go 
down  in  the  fore-peak  of  the  ship  and  stow  our- 
selves away.  Richard  and  I  climbed  down  three 
decks  and  found  ourselves  in  the  chain  lockers 
deep  in  the  ship's  bow.  It  was  pitch  dark  down 
there  and  we  lay  upon  the  ship's  cable  in  the 
farthest  corners.  For  three  hours  we  huddled 
there  in  silence. 

Just  when  we  were  beginning  to  congratulate 
ourselves  that  our  escape  would  be  successful,  the 
hatch  was  pulled  off  suddenly  and  three  Kanaka 
policemen  with  drawn  clubs  came  leaping  down 
upon  us. 

"  Come  out  of  this,  you,"  they  yelled,  swearing 
at  us  and  brandishing  their  billets.  The  jig  was 
up;  resistance  would  have  got  us  only  broken 
heads.    We  were  led  upon  deck  and  escorted  to- 


DREAMS    OF   LIBERTY  93 

ward  the  gangway  for  the  pier.  But  I  was  for 
one  more  try  hefore  giving  up.  Suddenly  I 
darted  for  the  rail  on  the  harbor  side  of  the  ship. 
We  were  in  the  waist  and  the  bulwarks  reached 
about  to  my  breast.  Before  the  Kanaka  police- 
men had  recovered  from  their  surprise  I  had 
plunged  head  first  over  the  rail  and  dived  into 
the  water  twenty  or  thirty  feet  below.  When  I 
came  to  the  surface  I  struck  out  for  shore  with 
all  my  might.  It  was  only  a  short  swim.  I  soon 
made  the  land  and  dragged  myself,  dripping 
brine,  out  upon  a  beach. 

I  glanced  toward  the  pier.  The  policemen, 
with  a  crowd  at  their  backs,  were  dashing  for  me 
along  shore.  I  started  for  the  cane  fields,  but  in 
my  wet  and  heavy  clothes  I  stumbled  along  as 
if  there  was  lead  in  my  shoes.  Perhaps  I  ran  a 
quarter  of  a  mile.  My  pursuers  gained  on  me 
steadily.  I  was  drawing  near  a  cane  field,  in 
which  I  felt  I  should  be  able  to  lose  myself;  but 
before  reaching  it,  my  pursuers  sprang  upon  me 
and  bore  me  to  the  ground.  Then,  with  a  police- 
man on  either  side  of  me,  I  was  marched  back  to 
the  brig's  boat. 


94       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  populace  had  turned  out  royally  in  my 
honor  and  I  passed  through  a  lane  of  brown 
humanity  that  bent  round  eyes  upon  me  and 
chortled  and  spluttered  Kanaka  and  seemed  to 
get  a  huge  amount  of  enjoyment  out  of  my  cap- 
ture. As  my  captors  paraded  me  onto  the  pier, 
who  should  be  there  waiting  for  me  but  Captain 
Shorey,  our  new  skipper,  just  arrived  from  San 
Francisco  by  steamer.  He  stood  with  feet  wide 
apart  and  arms  folded  on  his  breast  and  looked 
at  me  steadily  with  stern,  cold  eyes.  In  my  wet 
clothes  I  cut  a  sorry  figure.  I  felt  ashamed  of 
myself  and  realized  that  this  introduction  to  my 
new  captain  was  not  all  it  should  have  been. 
Captain  Winchester  had  nothing  to  say  to  Rich- 
ard and  me  on  the  long  pull  back  to  the  brig. 
Once  aboard,  he  drew  a  pint  of  Jamaica  rum 
from  his  pocket  and  gave  every  man  of  the  boat's 
crew,  except  us,  a  swig.  But  no  penalty  of  any 
sort  was  imposed  upon  us  for  our  escapade. 
This  surprised  us. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Gabriel's  little  drama 

ON  a  bright,  sunshiny  morning  a  few  days 
later,  with  a  light  breeze  just  ruffling  the 
harbor,  the  brig  with  her  sails  laid  back 
and  her  head  pointed  seaward  was  drifting  with 
the  ebb  tide  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  quarter  off 
shore  between  Honolulu  and  Diamond  Head. 
Captain  Winchester  had  set  out  for  the  city  in 
a  whale  boat.  Those  of  the  sailors  left  aboard 
were  idling  forward.  Mr.  Landers,  the  mate, 
sat  by  the  skylight  on  the  poop,  reading  a  maga- 
zine. Second  Mate  Gabriel  and  the  cooper  were 
busy  at  the  cooper's  bench  in  the  waist.  No  one 
else  was  on  deck  and  I  resolved  to  attempt  again 
to  escape.  The  situation  seemed  made  to  order. 
In  the  warm  weather  of  the  tropics,  I  had 
often  seen  old  man  Landers,  when  there  was 
nothing  doing  on  deck,  sit  and  read  by  the  hour 

95 


96       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

without  ever  looking  up.  I  hoped  that  this 
morning  his  magazine  would  prove  of  absorbing 
interest.  Gabriel  and  the  cooper  were  intent 
upon  their  work.  As  for  the  sailors,  I  told  them 
I  was  going  to  try  to  swim  ashore  and  if  I  were 
discovered  and  they  had  to  lower  for  me,  I  asked 
them  to  hurry  as  little  as  possible  so  I  might 
have  every  chance  to  get  away. 

For  my  adventure  I  wore  a  blue  flannel  shirt, 
dungaree  trousers,  and  my  blue  cap.  I  tied  my 
shoes  together  with  a  rope  yarn,  which  I  slipped 
baldric-fashion  over  my  shoulder.  In  the  belt  at 
my  waist  I  carried  a  sailor's  sheath  knife.  With 
this  I  had  a  foolish  idea  that  I  might  defend  my- 
self against  sharks.  Without  attracting  atten- 
tion, I  slipped  over  the  bow,  climbed  down  by 
the  bob-stays,  and  let  myself  into  the  sea.  I  let 
myself  wash  silently  astern  past  the  ship's  side 
and  struck  out  for  shore,  swimming  on  my  side 
without  splash  or  noise,  and  looking  back  to 
watch  developments  aboard. 

I  am  convinced  to  this  day  that  if  I  had  not 
been  in  the  water,  old  Landers  would  have  kept 
his  nose  in  that  magazine  for  an  hour  or  so  and 


GABRIELS    LITTLE    DRAMA       97 

drowsed  and  nodded  over  it  as  I  had  seen  him 
do  dozens  of  times  before.  Either  my  good 
angel,  fearful  of  the  sharks,  or  my  evil  genius, 
malignantly  bent  upon  thwarting  me,  must  have 
poked  the  old  fellow  in  the  ribs.  At  any  rate, 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  stepped  to  the  taff- 
rail  with  a  pair  of  binoculars  in  his  hand.  He 
placed  the  glasses  to  his  eyes  and  squinted  to- 
ward the  pier  to  see  whether  or  not  the  captain 
had  reached  shore.  I  don't  know  whether  he  saw 
the  captain  or  not,  but  he  saw  me. 

"  Who's  that  overboard?  "  he  shouted. 

I  did  not  answer.     Then  he  recognized  me. 

"  Hey,  you,"  he  cried,  calling  me  by  name, 
"  come  back  here." 

I  kept  on  swimming. 

"  Lay  aft  here,  a  boat's  crew,"  Mr.  Landers 
sang  out. 

Gabriel  and  the  cooper  ran  to  the  quarter-deck 
and  stared  at  me.  The  sailors  came  lounging  aft 
along  the  rail.  Mr.  Landers  and  Gabriel  threw 
the  boat's  falls  from  the  davit  posts.  The  sailors 
strung  out  aei'oss  the  deck  to  lower  the  boat. 

"  Lower  awav,"  shouted  Mr.  Landers. 


98       A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

One  end  of  the  boat  went  down  rapidly.  The 
other  end  jerked  and  lurched  and  seemed  to  re- 
main almost  stationary.  I  wondered  whether  my 
shipmates  were  bungling  purposely.  Mr.  Lan- 
ders and  Gabriel  sprang  among  them,  brushed 
them  aside  and  lowered  the  boat  themselves.  A 
crew  climbed  down  the  brig's  side  into  the  boat. 
Old  Gabriel  went  as  boatheader.  In  a  jiffy  the 
sweeps  were  shot  into  place,  the  boat  was  shoved 
off,  and  the  chase  was  on. 

All  this  had  taken  time.  As  the  ship  was  drift- 
ing one  way  and  I  was  quartering  off  in  an  al- 
most opposite  direction,  I  must  have  been  nearly 
a  half  mile  from  the  vessel  when  Gabriel  started 
to  run  me  down. 

I  swam  on  my  side  with  a  long,  strong  stroke 
that  fast  swimmers  used  to  fancy  before  the  Aus- 
tralian crawl  came  into  racing  vogue.  I  was 
swimming  as  I  never  in  my  life  swam  before — 
swimming  for  liberty.  All  my  hope  and  heart, 
as  well  as  all  my  strength,  lay  in  every  stroke. 
The  clear,  warm  salt  water  creamed  about  my 
head  and  sometimes  over  it.  T  was  making  time. 
Swimming  on  my  side,  I  could  see  everything 


GABRIELS    LITTLE    DRAMA       99 

that  was  happening  hehind  me.  As  the  hoat 
came  after  me  I  noticed  there  was  hut  a  slight 
ripple  of  white  water  ahout  the  prow.  Plainly 
it  was  not  making  great  speed. 

"  Pull  away,  my  boys.  We  ketch  dat  feller," 
sang  out  Gabriel. 

Wilson  at  the  midship  oar  "  caught  a  crab  " 
and  tumbled  over  backwards,  his  feet  kicking  in 
the  air.  Wilson  was  a  good  oarsman.  He  was 
my  friend.  A  hundred  yards  more  and  Walker 
at  the  tub  oar  did  the  same.  He  also  was  my 
friend. 

The  boys  were  doing  their  best  to  help  me— 
to  give  me  a  chance.  I  knew  it.  Gabriel  knew 
it,  too.  The  crafty  old  negro  recognized  the 
crisis.  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said  or  see  all 
that  he  did,  but  the  boys  told  me  about  it  after- 
wards.   It  must  have  been  a  pretty  bit  of  acting. 

Suddenly  Gabriel  half  rose  from  his  seat  and 
peered  anxiously  ahead. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "dat  poor  feller,  he 
drown.     Pull,  my  boys.     Oh,  good  God !  " 

The  sailors  at  the  sweeps  had  their  backs  to 
me.     It  was  a  jwod  lonij  swim  and  the  water 


100     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

was  full  of  sharks.  It  was  not  difficult  to  make 
them  believe  that  I  was  verging  on  tragedy. 

"  Dere  he  go  down ! "  Gabriel's  voice  was 
broken  and  sobbing.  "  He  t'row  his  hands  up. 
He  underneath  de  water.  I  cain't  see  him.  Oh, 
dat  poor  feller!  No,  dere  he  come  up  again — 
oh,  good  Lord!  Pull  away,  my  bully  boys,  pull 
away.    We  save  him  yet." 

Surely  the  stage  lost  a  star  when  Gabriel  be- 
came a  whaler.  The  old  Thespian  was  good — 
he  was  great.  His  acting  carried  conviction. 
The  sailors  believed  I  was  drowning.  They 
leaned  upon  their  oars  with  a  will.  The  sweeps 
bent  beneath  the  powerful  strokes.  The  boat 
jumped  through  the  water.  I  noted  the  in- 
creased speed  by  the  white  spray  that  began  to 
stand  at  the  bow.  Gabriel  helped  along  the 
speed  by  forward  lurches  of  his  body,  pushing  at 
the  same  time  upon  the  stroke  oar.  All  the  while 
he  kept  shouting: 

"  We  save  him  yet,  dat  poor  feller !  Pull 
away,    my   boys." 

The  boat  came  up  rapidly.  In  a  little  while 
it  was  almost  upon  me.     I  tried  to  dodge  it  by 


GABRIEL'S   LITTLE    DRAMA     101 

darting  off  at  right  angles.  It  was  no  use — Ga- 
briel slewed  his  tiller  and  the  boat  came  swishing 
round  upon  me.  I  had  played  the  game  out  to 
the  last  and  I  was  beaten — that  was  all.  I  caught 
the  gunwale  near  the  bow  and  pulled  myself  into 
the  boat. 

"  You  make  dam  good  swim,  my  boy,"  said  old 
Gabriel,  smiling  at  me  as  he  brought  the  boat 
around  and  headed  back  for  the  ship. 

I  had  made  a  good  swim.  I  was  fully  a  mile 
from  the  brig.  I  was  not  much  over  a  half  mile 
from  shore.  I  looked  across  the  sunlit,  dancing 
blue  water  to  the  land.  How  easy  it  would  have 
been  to  swim  it!  Plow  easy  it  would  have  been 
after  I  had  crawled  out  upon  the  sands  to  hide 
in  the  nearby  mountains  and  live  on  wild  fruit 
until  the  ship  started  for  the  north  and  all  dan- 
ger of  capture  was  past. 

Xo  laud  could  have  seemed  more  beautiful. 
Groves  of  banana,  orange,  and  cocoanut  trees 
held  out  their  fruit  to  me.  Forests  swept  to  the 
summits  of  the  mountains.  Flowers  were  in  riot- 
ous bloom  everywhere.  I  could  almost  count  the 
ribs  in  the  glossy  fronds  of  the  palms.     I  could 


102     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

hear  the  soft  crash  of  the  combers  on  the  coral 
beaches  of  those  enchanted  shores.  It  all  looked 
like  paradise  and  I  had  missed  it  by  half  a  mile. 

When  I  reached  the  brig,  Mr.  Landers  per- 
mitted me  to  put  on  dry  clothing  and  then  put 
me  in  irons,  as  the  sea  phrase  is.  This  consisted 
in  fastening  my  hands  together  in  front  of  me 
with  a  pair  of  steel  handcuffs  of  the  ordinary 
kind  used  by  sheriffs  and  policemen  everywhere. 
Then  he  made  me  sit  on  the  main  hatch  until 
Captain  Winchester  came  back  from  Honolulu, 
along  toward  sundown. 

'What's  the  matter  with  that  man?"  roared 
the  captain  as  he  swung  over  the  rail  and  his  eyes 
lighted  on  me. 

"He  jumped  overboard  and  tried  to  swim 
ashore,"  said  Mr.  Landers  in  his  nasal  Cape  Cod 
drawl. 

'  Why  didn't  you  get  my  rifle  and  shoot  him?  " 
thundered  the  captain. 

"Well,"  returned  Mr.  Landers,  "I  don't 
shoot  folks." 

After  supper  the  captain  stuck  his  head  out 
of  the  cabin  gangway. 


GABRIELS    LITTLE    DRAMA     103 

"  Come  down  here,  you,"  he  said.  I  stepped 
into  the  cabin,  now  bright  with  lighted  lamps. 
The  captain  glared  at  me  savagely. 

"  You  want  to  give  me  a  bad  name  with  Cap- 
tain Shorey  when  he  takes  command,  do  you?" 
he  shouted.  '  You  want  to  make  it  appear  I 
have  been  hard  on  my  men,  eh?  You  think 
you're  a  smart  sea  lawyer,  but  I'll  teach  you  the 
bitterest  lesson  you  ever  learned.  We  are  bound 
for  the  Arctic  Ocean.  There  are  no  ships  up 
there  but  whale  ships,  and  we  do  as  we  please.  I 
have  been  sailing  to  the  Arctic  for  thirteen  years 
as  master  and  mate  of  whale  ships  and  I  know 
just  how  far  I  can  go  in  dealing  with  a  man 
without  making  myself  liable  to  law.  I  am  go- 
ing to  make  it  as  rough  for  von  as  I  know  how 
to  make  it.  I  will  put  you  over  the  jumps  right. 
I  will  punish  you  to  the  limit.  This  ship  is  going 
to  be  a  floating  hell  for  you  for  the  rest  of  the 
voyage.  And  when  we  get  back  to  San  Fran- 
cisco you  can  prosecute  me  all  you  please." 

He  drew  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  unlocked 
one  manacle.  It  dropped  from  one  wrist  and 
dangled  from  the  other. 


104     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

"  Boy,"  he  said  to  the  Kanaka  cabin  boy,  who 
has  been  listening  with  open  mouth  and  bulging 
eyes  to  this  tirade,  "  get  this  man  a  cup  of  water 
and  a  biscuit." 

I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast,  and 
I  sat  down  at  the  cabin  table  and  ate  my  one 
hardtack  and  drank  my  quart  tin  of  water  with 
a  relish.  After  my  meal,  the  captain  fastened 
my  handcuff  again  and  jerked  a  little  hatch  out 
of  the  floor. 

"  Get  down  there,"  he  said. 

I  climbed  down  and  he  clapped  the  hatch  on 
again.  I  was  in  darkness  except  for  the  light 
that  filtered  from  the  cabin  lamps  through  the 
four  cracks  of  the  hatch.  When  my  eyes  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  dimness,  I  made  out 
that  I  was  in  the  ship's  run,  where  the  provisions 
for  the  captain's  table  were  stored.  I  rummaged 
about  as  well  as  I  could  in  my  handcuffs  and 
found  a  sack  of  raisins  open  and  a  box  of  soda 
crackers.  To  these  I  helped  myself  generously. 
From  a  forecastle  viewpoint  they  were  rare 
dainties,  and  I  filled  my  empty  stomach  with 
them.  I  had  not  tasted  anything  so  good  since 
I  had  my  last  piece  of  pie  ashore.     Pie!    Dear 


GABRIEL'S    LITTLE    DRAMA     10.5 

me!  One  doesn't  know  how  good  it  is — just 
common  pie  baked  in  a  bakery  and  sold  at  the 
corner  grocery — until  one  cannot  get  it  and  has 
had  nothing  but  salt  horse  and  cracker  hash  for 
months.  I  used  to  yearn  for  pie  by  day  and 
dream  of  pie  by  night.  At  bedtime  the  captain 
snatched  the  hatch  off  again  and  tossed  me  down 
my  blankets.  1  bundled  up  in  them  as  best  I 
could  and  slept  with  my  manacles  on. 

I  was  kept  in  irons  on  bread  and  water  for 
five  days  and  nights.  Sometimes  in  the  day- 
time, with  one  handcuff  unlocked  and  hanging 
from  my  other  wrist,  I  was  put  at  slushing  down 
the  main  boom  or  washing  paint-work.  But  for 
the  most  part  I  was  held  a  close  prisoner  in  the 
run,  being  called  to  the  cabin  table  three  times 
a  day  for  my  bread  and  water.  Finally,  when 
Captain  Shorey  came  aboard  and  assumed  com- 
mand and  the  vessel  headed  for  the  north,  I  was 
released  and  sent  to  the  forecastle.  My  ship- 
mates proved  Job's  comforters  and  were  filled 
with  gloomy  predictions  regarding  my  future. 

"  I  pity  you  from  now  on,"  eaeli  one  said. 

But  their  prophecies  proved  false.  After  Cap- 
tain Shorey  took  charge  of  the  ship  Mr.  Win- 


106     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

Chester  became  mate.  As  mate  he  was,  as  may 
be  said,  the  ship's  foreman,  directing  the  work 
of  the  men,  and  was  in  much  more  intimate  con- 
tact with  the  sailors  than  when  he  had  been  skip- 
per. In  his  new  capacity  he  had  much  greater 
opportunity  to  make  it  unpleasant  for  me  in  a 
thousand  ways.  But  for  some  reason  or  other 
he  never  made  good  that  ferocious  speech  he  had 
delivered  to  me  in  the  cabin. 

When  other  green  hands  bungled,  he  damned 
them  in  round  terms  for  their  awkwardness. 
When  I  blundered  he  showed  me  how  to  correct 
my  error.  "  Not  that  way,  my  boy,"  he  would 
say.  "  Do  it  this  way."  When  I  took  my  trick 
at  the  wheel  he  would  often  spin  a  yarn  or  crack 
a  joke  with  me.  He  loaned  me  books  from  time 
to  time.  In  Behring  Sea,  when  he  got  out  his 
rifle  and  shot  okchug  seals  as  they  lay  basking 
on  cakes  of  ice,  he  almost  invariably  took  me 
with  him  in  the  boat  to  bring  back  the  kill.  In 
short,  he  treated  me  more  considerately  than  he 
treated  any  other  man  in  the  forecastle  and  be- 
fore the  voyage  was  over  we  had  become  fast 
friends. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THROUGH    THE    ROARING    FORTIES 

BEFORE  leaving  the  islands,  we  shipped  a 
Portuguese  negro  boat-steerer  to  take  the 
place  of  the  Night  King.  He  was  coal 
black,  had  a  wild  roll  to  his  eyes,  an  explosive, 
spluttering  way  of  talking,  looked  strikingly  like 
a  great  ape,  and  had  little  more  than  simian  intel- 
ligence. His  feet  had  the  reputation  of  being 
the  largest  feet  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands.  When 
I  had  seen  them  I  was  prepared  to  believe  they 
were  the  largest  in  the  world.  He  was  dubbed 
"  Big  Foot  "  Louis,  and  the  nickname  stuck  to 
him  during  the  voyage.  He  came  aboard  bare- 
footed. I  don't  know  whether  he  could  find  any 
shoes  in  the  islands  big  enough  to  fit  him  or  not. 
Anyway,  he  didn't  need  shoes  in  the  tropics. 

When  we  began  to  get  north  into  cold  weather 
he  needed  them  badly,  and  there  were  none  on 
board  large  enough  for  him  to  get  his  toes  in. 

107 


108     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  captain  went  through  his  stock  of  Eskimo 
boots,  made  of  walrus  hide  and  very  elastic,  but 
they  were  too  small.  When  we  entered  the  re- 
gion of  snow,  Louis  was  still  running  about  the 
deck  barefooted.  As  a  last  resort  he  sewed  him- 
self a  pair  of  canvas  shoes — regular  meal  sacks 
— and  wore  them  through  snow  and  blizzard  and 
during  the  cold  season  when  we  were  in  the  grip 
of  the  Behring  Sea  ice  pack.  Up  around  Beh- 
ring  straits  the  captain  hired  an  Eskimo  to  make 
a  pair  of  walrus  hide  boots  big  enough  for  Louis 
to  wear,  and  Louis  wore  them  until  we  got  back 
to  San  Francisco  and  went  ashore  in  them.  I 
met  him  wandering  along  Pacific  Street  in  his 
walrus  hides.  However,  he  soon  found  a  pair  of 
brogans  which  he  could  wear  with  more  or  less 
comfort. 

One  night  while  I  was  knocking  about  the 
Barbary  Coast  with  my  shipmates  we  heard 
dance  music  and  the  sound  of  revelry  coming 
from  behind  the  swinging  doors  of  the  Bow  Bells 
saloon,  a  free-and-easy  resort.  We  stepped  in- 
side. Waltzing  around  the  room  with  the  grace 
of  a  young  bowhead  out  of  water  was  "  Big- 


THE   ROARING   FORTIES      109 

Foot "  Louis,  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  a 
buxom  negress,  and  on  his  feet  nothing  but  a 
pair  of  red  socks.  We  wondered  what  had  be- 
come of  his  shoes  and  spied  them  on  the  piano, 
which  the  "  professor "  was  vigorously  strum- 
ming. Louis  seemed  to  be  having  more  fun  than 
anybody,  and  was  perfectly  oblivious  to  the  tit- 
ters of  the  crowd  and  to  the  fact  that  it  was  not 
de  rigueur  on  the  Barbary  Coast  to  dance  in 
one's  socks. 

We  left  the  Hawaiian  Islands  late  in  March 
and,  standing  straight  north,  soon  left  the  tropics 
behind,  never  to  see  them  again  on  the  voyage. 
As  we  plunged  into  the  "  roaring  forties  "  we 
struck  our  first  violent  storm.  The  fury  of  the 
gale  compelled  us  to  heave  to  under  staysails  and 
drift,  lying  in  the  troughs  of  the  seas  and  riding 
the  waves  sidewise.  The  storm  was  to  me  a  reve- 
lation of  what  an  ocean  gale  could  be.  Old  sail- 
ors declared  they  never  had  seen  anything  worse. 
The  wind  shrieked  and  whistled  in  the  rigging 
like  a  banshee.  It  was  impossible  to  hear  ordi- 
nary talk  and  the  men  had  to  yell  into  each 
other's  ears.     We  put  out   oil   bags  along  the 


110     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

weather  side  to  keep  the  waves  from  breaking. 
But  despite  the  oil  that  spread  from  them  over 
the  water,  giant  seas  frequently  broke  over  the 
brig.  One  crushed  the  waist  boat  into  kindling 
wood  and  sent  its  fragments  flying  all  over  the 
deck.  We  were  fortunate  to  have  several  other 
extra  boats  in  the  hold  against  just  such  an  emer- 
gency. Waves  sometimes  filled  the  ship  to  the 
top  of  the  bulwarks  and  the  sailors  waded  about 
up  to  their  breasts  in  brine  until  the  roll  of  the 
vessel  spilled  the  water  overboard  or  it  ran  back 
into  the  sea  through  the  scuppers  and  hawse- 
holes. 

The  waves  ran  as  high  as  the  topsail  yard. 
They  would  pile  up  to  windward  of  us,  gaining 
height  and  volume  until  we  had  to  look  up  al- 
most vertically  to  see  the  tops.  Just  as  a  giant 
comber  seemed  ready  to  break  in  roaring  foam 
and  curl  over  and  engulf  us,  the  staunch  little 
brig  would  slip  up  the  slope  of  water  and  ride 
over  the  summit  in  safety.  Then  the  sea  would 
shoot  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  vessel  with  a 
deafening  hiss  like  that  of  a  thousand  serpents 
and   rush   skyward   again,    the    wall    of   water 


THE   ROARING   FORTIES      111 

streaked  and  shot  with  foam  and  looking  like  a 
polished  mass  of  jade  or  agate. 

I  had  not  imagined  water  could  assume  such 
wild  and  appalling  shapes.  Those  monster 
waves  seemed  replete  with  malignant  life,  roar- 
ing out  their  hatred  of  us  and  watching  alertly 
with  their  devilish  foam-eyes  for  a  chance  to  leap 
upon  us  and  crush  us  or  sweep  us  to  death  on 
their  crests. 

I  became  genuinely  seasick  now  for  the  first 
time.  A  little  touch  of  seasickness  I  had  experi- 
enced in  the  tropics  was  as  nothing.  To  the  rail 
I  went  time  and  again  to  give  up  everything 
within  me,  except  my  immortal  soul,  to  the  mad 
gods  of  sea.  For  two  days  I  lay  in  my  bunk.  I 
tried  pickles,  fat  bacon,  everything  that  any 
sailor  recommended,  all  to  no  purpose.  I  would 
have  given  all  I  possessed  for  one  fleeting  mo- 
ment upon  something  level  and  still,  something 
that  did  not  plunge  and  lurch  and  roll  from  side 
to  side  and  rise  and  fall.  I  think  the  most 
wretched  part  of  seasickness  is  the  knowledge 
that  you  cannot  run  away  from  it,  that  you  are 
penned  in  with  it,  that  go  where  you  will,  on  the 


112     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

royal  yard  or  in  the  bilge,  you  cannot  escape  the 
ghastly  nightmare  even  for  a  minute. 

There  is  no  use  fighting  it  and  no  use  dosing 
yourself  with  medicines  or  pickles  or  lemons  or 
fat  meat.  Nothing  can  cure  it.  In  spite  of 
everything  it  will  stay  with  you  until  it  has 
worked  its  will  to  the  uttermost,  and  then  it  will 
go  away  at  last  of  its  own  accord,  leaving  you  a 
wan,  limp  wreck.  I  may  add,  to  correct  a  gen- 
eral impression,  that  it  is  impossible  to  become 
seasoned  to  seasickness.  One  attack  does  not 
render  the  victim  immune  from  future  recur- 
rences. I  was  very  sick  once  again  on  the  voy- 
age. After  a  season  ashore,  the  best  sailors  are 
liable  to  seasickness,  especially  if  they  encounter 
rough  weather  soon  after  leaving  port.  Some 
time  later  we  were  frozen  solidly  in  Behring  Sea 
for  three  weeks.  When  a  storm  swell  from  the 
south  broke  up  the  ice  and  the  motionless  brig 
began  suddenly  to  rock  and  toss  on  a  heavy  sea, 
every  mother's  son  aboard,  including  men  who 
had  been  to  sea  all  their  lives,  was  sick.  Not 
one  escaped. 

During  the  storm  we  kept  a  man  at  the  wheel 


THE   ROARING   FORTIES      113 

and  another  on  the  try-works  as  a  lookout.  One 
day  during  my  trick  at  the  wheel,  I  was  prob- 
ably responsible  for  a  serious  accident,  though  it 
might  have  happened  with  the  most  experienced 
sailor  at  the  helm.  To  keep  the  brig  in  the  trough 
of  the  seas,  I  was  holding  her  on  a  certain  point 
of  the  compass,  but  the  big  waves  buffeted  the 
vessel  about  with  such  violence  that  my  task  was 
difficult.  Captain  Shorey  was  standing  within 
arm's  length  of  me,  watching  the  compass.  A 
sea  shoved  the  brig's  head  to  starboard  and,  as  if 
it  had  been  lying  in  ambush  for  just  such  an 
opportunity,  a  giant  comber  came  curling  in 
high  over  the  stern.  It  smashed  me  into  the 
wheel  and  for  an  instant  I  was  buried  under 
twenty  feet  of  crystal  water  that  made  a  green 
twilight  all  about  us. 

Then  the  wave  crashed  down  ponderously 
upon  the  deck  and  I  was  standing  in  clear  air 
again.  To  my  astonishment,  the  captain  was 
no  longer  beside  me.  I  thought  he  had  been 
washed  overboard.  The  wave  had  lifted  him 
upon  its  top,  swept  him  high  over  the  skylight 
the  entire  length  of  the  quarter-deck  and  dropped 


114     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

him  on  the  main  deck  in  the  waist.  His  right 
leg  was  broken  below  the  knee.  Sailors  and 
boat-steerers  rushed  to  him  and  carried  him  into 
the  cabin,  where  Mr.  Winchester  set  the  broken 
bones.  We  put  into  Unalaska  a  week  later  and 
the  surgeon  of  the  revenue  cutter  Bear  reset  the 
leg.  This  was  in  the  last  days  of  March.  The 
captain  was  on  crutches  in  July,  when  we  caught 
our  first  whale. 

The  storm  did  not  blow  itself  out.  It  blew  us 
out  of  it.  We  must  have  drifted  sidewise  with 
the  seas  about  six  hundred  miles.  At  dawn  of 
the  second  day,  after  leaving  the  fury  of  the 
forties  behind,  we  were  bowling  along  in  smooth 
water  with  all  sails  set.  The  sky  was  clear 
and  the  sea  like  hammered  silver.  Far  ahead  a 
mountain  rose  into  the  sky- — a  wedge-shaped 
peak,  silver-white  with  snow,  its  foot  swathed  in 
purple  haze.  It  rose  above  Unimak  Pass,  which 
connects  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  Behring  Sea  be- 
tween Unimak  and  Ugamok  islands  of  the  Fox 
Island  chain. 

Unimak  Pass  is  ten  miles  broad,  and  its  tow- 
ering shores  are  sheer,  black,  naked  rock.     Mr. 


THE    ROARING    FORTIES       115 

Winchester,  who  had  assumed  command  after 
the  captain  had  broken  his  leg,  set  a  course  to 
take  us  directly  through  the  passage.  Running 
before  a  light  breeze  that  bellied  all  our  sails,  we 
began  to  draw  near  the  sea  gorge  at  the  base  of 
the  mountain.  Then,  without  warning,  from 
over  the  horizon  came  a  savage  white  squall, 
blotting  out  mountain,  pass,  sea,  and  sky. 

I  never  saw  bad  weather  blow  up  so  quickly. 
One  moment  the  ship  was  gliding  over  a  smooth 
sea  in  bright  sunlight.  The  next,  a  cloud  as 
white  and  almost  as  thick  as  wool  had  closed 
down  upon  it;  snow  was  falling  heavily  in  big, 
moist  flakes,  a  stiff  wind  was  heeling  the  vessel 
on  its  side,  and  we  could  not  see  ten  feet  beyond 
the  tip  of  the  jib  boom. 

The  wind  quickened  into  a  gale.  By  fast 
work  we  managed  to  furl  sails  and  double-reef 
the  topsail  before  they  carried  away.  Soon  the 
deck  was  white  with  four  or  five  inches  of  snow. 
On  the  forecastle-head  Big  Foot  Louis  was 
posted  as  lookout.  Everybody  was  anxious. 
Mr.  Winchester  took  his  stand  close  by  the  main 
shrouds  at  the  break  of  the  poop  and  kept  gaz- 


116     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

ing  ahead  through  his  glasses  into  the  mist.  The 
sailors  and  boat-steerers  crowded  the  forward 
rails,  peering  vainly  into  the  swirling  fog.  Big 
Foot  Louis  bent  forward  with  his  hand  shielding 
his  eyes  from  the  falling  snow. 

"  Land,  land!  "  he  cried. 

If  it  were  land  that  Louis  saw  through  the 
clouds  and  blinding  snow,  it  was  mighty  close. 
Our  doom  seemed  sealed.  We  expected  the  ship 
to  crash  bows-on  upon  the  rocks.  We  nerved 
ourselves  for  the  shock.  A  momentary  vision  of 
shipwreck  on  those  bleak  coasts  in  snow  and 
storm  obsessed  me.  But  Louis's  eyes  had  de- 
ceived him.  The  ship  went  riding  on  its  stately 
way  through  the  blinding  snow  before  the  gale. 

The  situation  was  ticklish,  if  not  critical.  We 
had  been  headed  squarely  for  the  passage  before 
the  storm  closed  down.  Now  we  could  not  see 
where  we  were  going.  If  we  held  directly  upon 
our  course  we  were  safe.  If  the  gale  blew  us 
even  slightly  out  of  our  way,  shipwreck  and 
death  on  the  rock-bound  shore  awaited  us, 
Which   would   it   be? 

Mr.  Winchester  was  a  man  of  iron  nerve.    He 


THE    ROARING    FORTIES       117 

demonstrated  this  now  as  he  did  many  times 
afterward.  He  was  as  skillful  a  navigator  as 
he  was  a  fearless  one.  He  knew  his  reckonings 
were  good.  He  knew  that  when  the  squall  shut 
out  the  world  the  brig's  nose  was  pointed  directly 
at  the  center  of  Unimak  Pass.  So  he  did  not 
veer  to  cast  or  west,  or  seek  to  tack  back  from 
the  dangerous  coasts  on  our  bows,  but  drove  the 
vessel  straight  upon  its  course  into  the  blank 
white  wall  of  mist  and  snow. 

An  hour  later  the  squall  lifted  as  quickly  as 
it  had  come.  Blue  skies  and  sunshine  came  back. 
We  found  ourselves  almost  becalmed  on  a  placid 
sea.  To  the  south  lay  the  outline  of  a  lofty 
coast. 

A  boat-steerer  bustled  forward.  "  We  are  in 
Behring  Sea,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

We  had  shot  through  the  narrow  channel 
without  sighting  the  shores.  1  have  often  won- 
dered just  how  close  to  port  or  starboard  death 
was  to  us  that  morning  on  the  black  cliffs  of 
Unimak  Pass. 


CHAPTER   X 


IN   THE   ICE 


FROM  Unalaska,  into  which  port  we  put 
to  have  the  captain's  leg  attended  to,  the 
brig  stood  northwesterly  for  the  spring 
whaling  on  the  bowhead  and  right  whale 
grounds  off  the  Siberian  coast.  We  were  a 
week's  sail  from  the  Fox  Islands  when  we  en- 
countered our  first  ice.  It  appeared  in  small 
chunks  floating  down  from  the  north.  The 
blocks  became  more  numerous  until  they  dap- 
pled the  sea.  They  grew  in  size.  Strings  and 
floes  appeared.  Then  we  brought  up  against  a 
great  ice  field  stretching  to  the  north  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see.  It  was  all  floe  ice  broken 
into  hummocks  and  pressure  ridges  and  pinna- 
cles, with  level  spaces  between.  There  were  no 
towering  'bergs  such  as  are  launched  into  the  sea 

from  the  glaciers  on  the  Greenland  coast  and 
h  118 


IN   THE    ICE  119 

the  Pacific  coast  of  Alaska.  The  highest  'berg 
I  saw  on  the  voyage  was  not  more  than  forty 
feet  high.  It  was  composed  of  floe  ice  which  had 
been  forced  upward  by  the  pressure  of  the  pack. 

The  crow's  nest  was  now  rigged  and  placed  in 
position  on  the  cross-trees  abaft  the  foremast, 
between  the  topsail  and  the  fore-top-gallant-sail 
yard.  It  was  a  square  box  of  heavy  white  can- 
vas nailed  upon  a  wooden  framework.  When  a 
man  stood  in  it  the  canvas  sides  reached  to  his 
breast  and  were  a  protection  against  the  bitter 
winds.  From  early  morning  until  dark  an  of- 
ficer and  a  boat-steerer  occupied  the  crow's  nest 
and  kept  a  constant  lookout  for  whales. 

As  soon  as  we  struck  the  ice  the  captain's  slop- 
chest  was  broken  open  and  skin  clothes  were 
dealt  out  to  the  men.  Accoutred  for  cold 
weather,  I  wore  woolen  underwear  and  yarn 
socks  next  my  flesh;  an  outer  shirt  of  squirrel 
skin  with  hood  or  parka;  pants  and  vest  of  hair 
seal  of  the  color  and  sheen  of  newly  minted  sil- 
ver; a  coat  of  dogskin  that  reached  almost  to  my 
knees;  a  dogskin  cap;  deerskin  socks  with  the 
hair  inside  over  my  yarn  socks;  walrus-hide  boots 


120     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

and  walrus-hide  mittens  over  yarn  mittens.  The 
walrus-boots  were  fastened  by  a  gathering  string 
just  below  the  knees  and  by  thongs  of  tanned  skin 
about  the  ankle.  Some  of  the  men  wore  heavy 
reindeer-skin  coats.  The  skin  clothes  worn  by  the 
officers  and  boat-steerers  were  of  finer  quality 
and  more  pretentious.  Perhaps  the  handsomest 
costume  was  that  of  Little  Johnny.  It  consisted 
of  coat,  vest,  and  trousers  of  silvery  hair-seal, 
with  the  edges  of  the  coat  trimmed  with  the 
snowwhite  fur  of  fur-seal  pups.  With  this  he 
wore  a  black  dogskin  cap  and  walrus-hide  boots. 

While  we  were  among  the  ice,  the  officer  in  the 
crow's  nest  directed  the  course  of  the  brig. 
Whaling  officers  are  great  fellows  to  show  their 
skill  by  just  grazing  dangerous  ice.  Many  a 
time  we  green  hands  stood  with  our  hearts  in  our 
mouths  as  the  ship  seemed  about  to  crash  into  a 
'berg  bows-on. 

"  Starboard,"  would  come  the  order  from 
aloft. 

"  Starboard,  sir,"  the  helmsman  would  re- 
spond. 

The  bow  would  swing  slowly  to  one  side  and 


f 

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J!4 


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tag 


o 


IN    THE    ICE  121 

the  'berg  would  go  glancing  along  the  rail  so 
close  perhaps  that  we  could  have  grabbed  a 
snowball  off  some  projection. 

"  Steady,"  the  officer  would  call. 

"  Steady,  sir."  The  bow  would  stop  in  its 
lateral  swing. 

"  Port." 

"  Port,  sir."  The  bow  would  swing  the  other 
way. 

"  Steady."  We  would  be  upon  our  old  course 
again. 

Once  I  remember  the  mate  was  in  the  crow's 
nest  and  had  been  narrowly  missing  ice  all  day 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing — "  showing  off,"  as  we 
rather  disturbed  green  hands  said.  A  'berg 
about  thirty  feet  high,  a  giant  for  Behring  Sea 
waters,  showed  a  little  ahead  and  to  leeward  of 
our  course.  The  mate  thought  he  could  pass  to 
windward.  He  kept  the  brig  close  to  the  wind 
until  the  'berg  was  very  near.  Then  he  saw  a 
windward  passage  was  impossible  and  tried  sud- 
denly to  go  to  leeward. 

"  Hard  up  your  wheel,"  he  cried. 

"  Hard  up  it  is,  sir." 


122     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  bow  swung  toward  the  'berg — swung 
slowly,  slowly  across  it.  The  tip  of  the  jib-boom 
almost  rammed  a  white  pinnacle.  Just  when 
everybody  was  expecting  the  brig  to  pile  up  in 
wreck  on  the  ice,  the  great  'berg  swept  past  our 
starboard  rail.  But  we  had  not  missed  it.  Its 
jagged  edges  scraped  a  line  an  inch  deep  along 
our  side  from  bow  to  stern. 

Shooting  okchug  (or,  as  it  is  sometimes  spelled, 
ooksook)  or  hair  seals  was  a  favorite  amusement 
in  the  spring  ice.  The  mate  was  an  expert  with 
a  rifle.  He  shot  many  as  they  lay  sunning  them- 
selves on  ice  cakes.  Okchugs  are  as  large  as  oxen 
and  are  covered  with  short  silvery  hair  so  glossy 
that  it  fairly  sparkles.  If  an  okchug  was  killed 
outright,  its  head  dropped  over  upon  the  ice  and 
it  lay  still.  If  only  slightly  wounded,  the  animal 
flounced  off  into  the  sea.  If  vitally  hurt,  it  re- 
mained motionless  with  its  head  up  and  glaring 
defiance,  whereupon  a  boat's  crew  would  row  out 
to  the  ice  cake  and  a  sailor  would  finish  the  crea- 
ture with  a  club. 

It  was  exciting  to  step  on  a  small  ice  cake  to 
face  a  wounded  and  savage  okchug.     The  ani- 


IN    THE    ICE  123 

mal  would  come  bouncing  on  its  flippers  straight 
at  one  with  a  vicious  barking  roar.  The  nose 
was  the  okchug's  most  vulnerable  point.  A  tap 
on  the  nose  with  a  club  would  stretch  the  great 
creature  out  dead.  It  required  a  cool  head,  a 
steady  nerve,  and  a  good  aim  to  deliver  this  fin- 
ishing stroke  upon  the  small  black  snout.  If  one 
missed  or  slipped  on  the  ice,  the  possible  conse- 
quences would  not  have  been  pleasant.  We 
tanned  the  skins  of  the  okchugs  and  made  them 
into  trousers  or  "  pokes."  The  meat  was  hung 
over  the  bows  to  keep  in  an  ice-box  of  all  out- 
doors. Ground  up  and  made  into  sausages,  it 
wTas  a  piece  de  resistance  on  the  forecastle  bill  of 
fare. 

One  night  in  the  latter  part  of  May  we  saw 
far  off  a  great  light  flaring  smokily  across  the 
sea.  It  was  what  is  known  in  whaler  parlance  as 
a  bug-light  and  was  made  by  blazing  blubber 
swinging  in  an  iron  basket  between  the  two 
smokestacks  of  a  whale-ship's  try-works.  By  it 
the  crew  of  that  distant  ship  was  working  at 
trying  out  a  whale.  The  bug-light  signaled  to 
all  the  whaling  fleet  the  first  whale  of  the  season. 


124     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  great  continent  of  ice  drifting  southward 
gradually  closed  round  the  fleet.  The  ships  had 
worked  so  far  in  there  was  no  escape.  In  the 
early  part  of  June  the  brig  was  frozen  in.  For 
three  weeks  the  vessel  remained  motionless  in 
solid  ice  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  furled.  No 
water  or  land  was  in  sight — nothing  but  one 
great  sweep  of  broken  and  tumbled  ice  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  see.  Those  three  ice-bound  June 
weeks  were  given  over  to  idleness.  A  stove  was 
placed  in  the  forecastle  and  was  kept  going  night 
and  day.  This  made  it  possible  to  keep  comfort- 
able and  to  read. 

We  went  on  frequent  seal  hunts.  We  strolled 
across  the  frozen  sea  to  visit  the  other  ships,  the 
nearest  of  which  was  two  miles  away.  Visiting 
is  called  "  gamming  "  by  whalers.  We  learned 
the  gossip  of  the  fleet,  who  had  taken  the  first 
whale,  how  many  whales  had  been  caught,  the 
adventures  of  the  ships,  the  comedies  and  trag- 
edies of  the  whaling  season. 

We  established,  too,  what  we  called  the  "  Beh- 
ring  Sea  Circulating  Library."  There  were  a 
number  of   books  in   every   forecastle.     These 


IN    THE    ICE  125 

greasy,  dog-eared  volumes  were  passed  about 
from  ship  to  ship.  Perhaps  there  were  twenty 
books  aboard  the  brig  which  had  been  read  by 
almost  every  member  of  the  crew,  forward  and 
aft.  Before  we  got  out  of  the  ice,  we  had  ex- 
changed these  volumes  for  an  entirely  new  lot 
from  other  ships. 

One  morning  I  awoke  with  the  ship  rocking 
like  a  cradle.  I  pulled  on  my  clothes  and  hur- 
ried on  deck.  The  ice  fields  were  in  wild  commo- 
tion. Great  swells  from  some  storm  upon  the 
open  sea  to  the  south  were  rolling  under  them. 
Crowded  and  tumultuous  waves  of  ice  twenty 
feet  high  chased  each  other  across  the  frozen 
fields  from  horizon  to  horizon.  The  ship  would 
sink  for  a  moment  between  ridges  of  ice  and 
snow,  and  then  swing  up  on  the  crest  of  an  ice 
mountain.  Great  areas  of  ice  would  fall  away 
as  if  the  sea  had  opened  beneath  them.  Then 
they  would  shoot  up  and  shut  out  half  the  sky. 
The  broken  and  jagged  edges  of  these  white  and 
solid  billows  appeared  for  an  instant  like  a  range 
of  snowy  sierras  which,  in  another  instant,  would 
crumble  from  view  as  if  some  seismic  cataclvsm 


126     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

had  shaken  them  down  in  ruin.  The  air  was 
rilled  with  grinding,  crushing,  ominous  noises 
and  explosions. 

The  ship  was  in  imminent  peril.  In  that  mad 
turmoil  of  ice  it  seemed  certain  she  would  be 
ground  to  pieces.  Captain  Shorey,  who  was 
hobbling  about  on  crutches,  ordered  a  cask  of 
bread,  a  cask  of  water,  and  a  barrel  of  beef 
hoisted  on  deck  ready  to  be  thrown  out  on  an 
ice  cake  in  case  the  brig  were  wrecked  and  we 
were  cast  away. 

In  the  grinding  of  the  floes,  the  ship  became 
wedged  in  between  two  immense  pieces  of  ice. 
The  great  bergs  washed  closer  and  closer. 
When  they  rose  on  some  tremendous  billow, 
great  caverns,  washed  out  by  the  sea,  appeared 
in  their  sides  like  mouths,  edged  with  splinters 
and  points  of  blue  and  glittering  ice,  like  fangs. 
As  they  rose  and  fell,  it  seemed  the  two  white 
monsters  were  opening  and  closing  devouring 
maws  for  us  while  the  suck  of  the  water  in  their 
ice  caves  made  noises  like  the  roar  of  hungry 
beasts  of  prey. 

A  cable  was  run  out  hurriedly  over  the  bow. 


IN   THE    ICE  127 

and  a  bowline  at  the  end  of  it  was  slipped  over 
a  hummock  of  ice.  With  the  inboard  end 
wound  around  the  windlass,  all  hands  worked 
like  beavers  to  heave  the  brig  out  of  her  dan- 
gerous position.  It  was  all  the  crew  could  do 
to  swing  the  windlass  bars  up  and  down.  The 
ship  went  forward  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly, 
and  all  the  time  the  great  bergs  swept  closer 
and  closer.  For  a  long  time  it  looked  as  if  we 
were  doomed.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the 
ship's  fate  if  the  bergs  struck  it.  But  inch  by 
inch,  heave  hx  heave,  we  hauled  her  through. 
Ten  minutes  later,  the  ice  monsters  came  to- 
gether with  a  force  that  would  have  crushed  an 
ironclad. 

Gradually  patches  of  clear  water  began  to 
appear  in  the  ice.  It  was  as  though  the  white 
fields  were  opening  great  blue  eyes.  Little 
lakes  and  zigzag  lanes  of  water  formed.  Sails 
were  set.  The  brig  began  to  work  her  way 
along.  Soon  she  was  swinging  on  heavy  bil- 
lows— not  white  billows  of  ice  but  green  billows 
of  water,  thick  with  ice  in  stars  and  constella- 
tions. 


CHAPTER    XI 

CROSS  COUNTRY  WHALING 

WE  had  hardly  washed  clear  of  the  ice  in 
the  heavy  seas  when  "Blow!"  rang 
from  the  crow's  nest.  A  school  of 
whales  close  ahead,  covering  the  sea  with  foun- 
tains, was  coming  leisurely  toward  the  ship. 
There  were  more  than  thirty  of  them. 

"Bowheads!"  shouted  the  mate. 

Their  great  black  heads  rose  above  the  sur- 
face like  ponderous  pieces  of  machinery;  tall 
fountains  shot  into  the  air;  the  wind  caught  the 
tops  of  the  fountains  and  whisked  them  off  in 
smoke;  hollow,  sepulchral  whispers  of  sound 
came  to  the  brig  as  the  breath  left  the  giant 
lungs  in  mighty  exhalations.  Why  they  were 
called  bowheads  was  instantly  apparent — the 
outline  of  the  top  of  the  head  curved  like  an 

Indian's  bow.     As  the  head   sank  beneath    the 

128 


CROSS    COUNTRY    WHALING     129 

surface,  the  glistening  back,  half  as  broad  as  a 
city  street  and  as  black  as  asphalt,  came  spin- 
ning up  out  of  the  sea  and  went  spinning  down 
again. 

Our  crippled  captain  in  his  fur  clothes  and 
on  crutches  limped  excitedly  about  the  quarter- 
deck glaring  at  $300,000  worth  of  whales  spout- 
ing under  his  nose.  But  with  so  much  ice  about 
and  such  a  heavy  sea  running  he  was  afraid  to 
lower. 

If  the  whales  saw  the  brig  they  gave  no  sign. 
They  passed  all  around  the  vessel,  the  spray  of 
their  fountains  blowing  on  deck.  One  headed 
straight  for  the  ship.  The  mate  seized  a  shoulder 
bomb-gun  and  ran  to  the  bow.  The  whale  rose, 
blew  a  fountain  up  against  the  jib-boom,  and 
dived  directly  beneath  the  brig's  forefoot.     As 

its  back  curled  down,  the  mate,  witli  one  knee 
resting  on  the  starboard  knighthead,  took  aim 
and  fired.  lie  surely  hit  the  whale — there  was 
little  chance  to  miss.  But  the  bomb  evidently 
did  not  strike  a  vital  spot,  for  the  leviathan 
passed  under  the  ship,  came  up  on  the  other 
side  and  went  on  about  its  business. 


130     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  sight  of  all  these  whales  passing  by  us 
with  such  unconcern,  blowing  water  on  us  as  if 
in  huge  contempt,  almost  seeming  to  laugh  at 
us  and  mock  our  bombs  and  harpoons  and  hu- 
man skill,  drove  the  captain  frantic.  Should  he 
allow  that  fortune  in  whales  to  escape  him  with- 
out a  try  for  it?  With  purple  face  and  popping 
eyes  he  gazed  at  the  herd  now  passing  astern. 

"Lower  them  boats!"  he  cried. 

"What?"  expostulated  Mr.  Landers.  "Do 
you  want  to  get  us  all  killed? " 

"Lower  them  boats!"  yelled  the  skipper. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  a  boat  that  gets  fast  to 
a  whale  in  that  ice  will  be  smashed,  sure?  " 

"  Lower  them  boats!  "  shouted  the  captain. 

Mr.  Winchester,  enthusiastic  and  fearless 
whaleman  that  he  was,  was  eager  for  the  cap- 
tain's order.  His  boat  and  Mr.  Landers's  went 
down.  The  waist  boat — mine — was  left  on  its 
davits.  But  Gabriel,  its  boatheader,  armed  with 
a  shoulder  gun,  went  in  the  mate's  boat.  Left 
aboard  to  help  work  ship,  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  view  that  exciting  chase  from  beginning  to 
end. 


CROSS    COUNTRY    WHALING     131 

With  storm-reefed  sails,  the  boats  went  plung- 
ing away  over  the  big  seas,  dodging  sharply 
about  to  avoid  the  ice  cakes.  Not  more  than 
two  hundred  yards  away  on  our  starboard  beam 
a  great  whale  was  blowing.  The  mate  marked 
it  and  went  for  it  like  a  bull  dog.  He  steered  to 
intercept  its  course.  It  was  a  pretty  piece  of 
maneuvering.  The  whale  rose  almost  in  front 
of  him  and  his  boat  went  shooting  upon  its  back. 
Long  John  let  fly  his  harpoon.  Gabriel  fired  a 
bomb  from  his  shoulder  gun.  There  was  a  flurry 
of  water  as  the  whale  plunged  under.  Back  and 
forth  it  slapped  with  its  mighty  flukes  as  it  dis- 
appeared, narrowly  missing  the  boat.  Down 
came  the  boat's  sail.  It  was  bundled  up  in  a 
jiffy  and  the  mast  slewed  aft  until  it  stuck  out 
far  behind.  Out  went  the  sweeps.  The  mate 
stood  in  the  stern  wielding  a  long  steering  oar. 
I  could  see  the  whale  line  whipping  and  sizzling 
out  over  the  bows. 

For  only  a  moment  the  whale  remained  be- 
neath the  surface.  Then  it  breached.  Its  black 
head  came  shooting  up  from  the  water  like  a 
titanic  rocket.    Up  went  the  great  body  into  the 


132     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

air  until  at  least  forty  feet  of  it  was  lifted 
against  the  sky  like  some  weird,  mighty  column, 
its  black  sides  glistening  and  its  belly  showing 
white.  Then  the  giant  bulk  crashed  down  again 
with  a  smack  on  the  sea  that  might  have  been 
heard  for  miles  and  an  impact  that  sent  tons  of 
water  splashing  high  in  air.  For  an  instant  the 
monster  labored  on  the  water  as  if  mortally  hurt, 
spouting  up  fountains  of  clotted  blood  that 
splattered  over  the  ice  blocks  and  turned  them 
from  snow  white  to  crimson.  Then  a  second 
time  the  whale  sounded  and  went  speeding  away 
to  windward,  heading  for  the  ice  pack. 

It  dragged  the  boat  at  a  dizzy  clip  despite  the 
fact  that  the  line  was  running  out  so  fast  as  to 
seem  to  the  men  in  the  boat  a  mere  vibrant,  in- 
distinct smear  of  yellow.  The  boat  was  taken 
slicing  through  the  big  waves,  driving  its  nose 
at  times  beneath  the  water,  and  knocking  against 
lumps  of  ice.  A  long  ice  block  appeared  in  its 
course.  A  collision  seemed  inevitable  unless  the 
boat  was  cut  loose  from  the  whale. 

Captain  Shorey  was  watching  the  chase  with 
fierce  intentness  as  he  leaned  upon  his  crutches 


CROSS   COUNTRY    WHALING     133 

on  the  forecastle  head.  He  had  been  filled  with 
great  joy,  seized  with  anxiety  or  shaken  with 
anger  as  the  hunt  passed  from  one  phase  to  an- 
other. Pie  shouted  his  emotions  aloud  though 
there  was  never  a  chance  for  the  men  in  the  boats 
to  hear  him. 

"  Good  boy,  Long  John,"  he  had  cried  when 
the  boatsteerer  drove  his  harpoon  home. 

'  That's  our  fish,"  he  had  chortled  as  the 
wounded  leviathan  leaped  high  against  the  sky 
and  spouted  blood  over  the  ice. 

Xow  when  it  seemed  possible  that  the  mate 
would  be  forced  to  cut  loose  from  the  whale  to 
save  his  boat  from  destruction,  the  captain 
danced  about  on  his  crutches  in  wild  excitement. 

"Don't  cut  that  line!  Don't  cut  that  line!" 
he  yelled. 

Mr.  Winchester  realized  as  well  as  the  cap- 
tain that  there  was  something  like  $10,000  on 
the  other  end  of  the  rope,  and  he  had  no  idea  of 
cutting  loose.  Towed  by  the  whale  the  boat 
drove  toward  the  ice.  The  mate  worked  hard 
with  his  steering  oar  to  avoid  striking  the  block. 
It  was  impossible.     The  bow  smashed  into  one 


134     A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

end  of  the  ice  cake,  was  lifted  out  of  the  water 
and  dragged  across  to  slip  back  into  the  sea.  A 
hole  was  stove  in  the  starboard  bow  through 
which  the  water  rushed.  The  crew  thereafter 
was  kept  busy  bailing. 

It  was  evident  from  the  fountains  of  blood 
that  the  whale  was  desperately  wounded,  but  its 
vitality  was  marvelous  and  it  seemed  it  might 
escape.  When  Mr.  Landers  saw  the  mate's  line 
being  played  out  so  rapidly  he  should  have  hur- 
ried to  the  mate's  boat  and  bent  the  line  from  his 
own  tub  to  the  end  of  the  mate's  line.  As  an 
old  whaleman  Mr.  Landers  knew  what  to  do  in 
this  crisis,  but  in  such  ice  and  in  such  high  seas 
he  preferred  not  to  take  a  chance.  He  was  a 
cautious  soul,  so  he  held  his  boat  aloof.  The 
mate  waved  to  him  frantically.  Long  John  and 
Gabriel  wigwagged  frenzied  messages  with  wav- 
ing arms. 

As  for  Captain  Shorey  on  his  crutches  on  the 
forecastle  head,  when  it  seemed  certain  that  the 
whale  would  run  away  with  all  the  mate's  line 
and  escape,  he  apparently  suffered  temporary 
aberration.     He  damned  old  man  Landers    in 


CROSS    COUNTRY    WHALING     135 

every  picturesque  and  fervent  term  of  an  old 
whaleman's  vocabulary.  He  shook  his  fist  at 
him.    He  waved  a  crutch  wildly. 

"Catch  that  whale!"  he  yelled  in  a  voice 
husky  and  broken  with  emotion.  '*  For  God's 
sake,  catch  that  whale!" 

All  this  dynamic  pantomime  perhaps  had  its 
effect  on  Landers.  At  any  rate,  his  men  began 
to  bend  to  their  sweeps  and  soon  his  boat  was 
alongside  that  of  the  mate.  His  line  was  tied  to 
the  free  end  of  the  rope  in  the  mate's  almost  ex- 
hausted tub  just  in  time.  The  mate's  line  ran 
out  and  Landers'  boat  now  became  fast  to  the 
whale. 

Fortune  favored  Landers.  His  boat  was 
dragged  over  the  crests  of  the  seas  at  thrilling 
speed,  but  he  managed  to  keep  clear  of  ice.  The 
whale  showed  no  sign  of  slowing  down.  In  a 
little  while  it  had  carried  away  all  the  line  in 
Mr.  Landers'  tub.  The  monster  was  free  of  the 
boats  at  last.  Tt  had  ceased  to  come  to  the  sur- 
face to  blow.  Tt  had  gone  down  into  the  deep 
waters  carrying  with  it  the  mate's  harpoon  and 
800  fathoms  of  manila  rope.     Tt  seemed  prob- 


136     A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

able  it  had  reached  the  safety  of  the  ice  pack  and 
was  lost. 

The  boats  came  back  to  the  brig;  slowly, 
wounded,  limping  over  the  waves.  The  flying 
spray  had  frozen  white  over  the  fur  clothes  of 
the  men,  making  them  look  like  snow  images. 
They  climbed  aboard  in  silence.  Mr.  Landers 
had  a  hang-dog,  guilty  look.  The  skipper  was 
a  picture  of  gloom  and  smoldering  fury.  He 
bent  a  black  regard  upon  Mr.  Landers  as  the 
latter  swung  over  the  rail,  but  surprised  us  all 
by  saying  not  a  word. 

When  the  next  day  dawned,  we  were  out  of 
sight  of  ice,  cruising  in  a  quiet  sea.  A  lookout 
posted  on  the  forecastle  head  saw  far  ahead  a 
cloud  of  gulls  flapping  about  a  dark  object 
floating  on  the  surface.    It  was  the  dead  whale. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT 

TWO  boats  were  sent  to  secure  the  whale. 
I  lowered  with  one.  As  we  came  up  to 
the  whale,  I  marveled  at  its  immense  bulk. 
It  looked  even  larger  than  when  it  had  breached 
and  I  had  seen  it  shoot  up,  a  giant  column  of 
flesh  and  blood,  against  the  heavens.  It  had 
turned  belly  up  as  dead  whales  do,  its  ridged 
white  abdomen  projecting  above  the  waves.  It 
seemed  much  like  a  mighty  white  and  black  rock, 
against  which  the  waves  lapped  lazily.  Seventy- 
five  feet  long  the  officers  estimated  it — an  un- 
usually large  bull  whale.  I  had  never  imagined 
any  animal  so  large.  I  had  seen  Jumbo,  said  to 
be  the  largest  elephant  ever  in  captivity.  Jumbo 
made  ordinary  circus  elephants  seem  like  pig- 
mies.    This  whale  was  as  big  as  a  dozen  Jumbos. 

The  great  hairy  mammoth,  of  which  1  had  seen 

137 


138     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

stuffed  specimens  in  museums,  would  have 
seemed  a  mere  baby  beside  this  monster  of  the 
deep. 

As  proof  that  the  whale  was  ours,  the  har- 
poon sticking  in  its  back  bore  the  brig's  name, 
and  fast  to  the  haft  and  floating  far  out  on  the 
sea  in  a  tangled  mass  was  the  800  fathoms  of 
line  from  the  brig's  two  tubs.  Our  first  work 
was  to  recover  the  line.  As  this  had  to  be 
straightened  out  and  coiled  in  the  boats,  it  was 
a  long  and  tedious  job.  Then  with  a  short  sharp 
spade,  a  hole  was  cut  through  the  whale's  flukes 
and  a  cable  passed  through  and  made  fast. 
With  both  boats  strung  out  along  the  cable,  the 
men  bent  to  the  sweeps,  hauling  the  carcass 
slowly  toward  the  brig.  Meanwhile  the  vessel 
had  been  sailing  toward  us.  So  we  had  but  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  to  pull. 

The  loose  end  of  the  hawser  was  passed 
through  the  hawse  hole  in  the  starboard  bow  and 
made  fast  to  the  forebitt.  In  this  way  the  flukes 
were  held  close  to  the  bow.  As  the  brig  made 
headway  under  short  sail,  the  great  body  washed 
back  against  the  vessel's  side  and  lay  upon  the 


CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT    139 

surface,  the  head  abreast  the  wheel  on  the  quar- 
ter-deck— which  will  give  an  idea  of  the  whale's 
length. 

The  gang-plank  was  taken  from  the  bulwarks 
and  a  cutting  stage  lowered  over  the  whale. 
This  stage  was  made  of  three  broad  planks. 
Two  projected  from  the  ship's  side,  the  third 
joined  their  outer  ends.  Along  the  inside  of 
the  third  plank  was  a  low  railing.  Two  officers 
took  their  station  on  the  outer  plank  with  long- 
handled  spades  to  cut  in  the  blubber.  The  spade 
was  enough  like  a  garden  spade  in  shape  to  sug- 
gest its  name  and  was  fastened  to  a  long  pole. 
Its  cutting  edge  was  as  sharp  as  a  razor. 

A  block  and  tackle  was  rigged  above  the 
whale,  the  upper  block  fastened  to  the  cross- 
trees  of  the  main  mast  and  the  tackle  carried 
forward  to  the  windlass.  A  great  hook  was  fas- 
tened into  the  whale's  blubber,  and  everything 
was  ready  for  the  cutting  in. 

As  the  officers  with  their  spades  cut  under  the 
blubber,  the  sailors  heaved  on  the  windlass.  The 
blanket  piece  of  blubber  began  to  rise.  As  it 
rose,  the  officers  kept  spading  under  it,  rolling 


140     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

the  whale  over  gradually.  Thus  the  whale  was 
peeled  much  as  one  would  peel  a  roll  of  bologna 
sausage.  When  the  great  carcass  had  been 
rolled  completely  over,  the  blanket  piece  of 
blubber  came  off.  The  upper  end  of  it  fast  to 
the  tackle  hook  was  up  almost  against  the  cross- 
trees  as  the  lower  end  swung  free.  The  largest 
blanket  pieces  weighed  perhaps  ten  tons.  Six 
were  taken  off  in  the  process  of  skinning.  The 
weight  of  the  whale,  I  should  estimate,  was 
roughly  something  like  one  hundred  tons,  per- 
haps a  little  more. 

When  the  blanket  piece  was  cut  free  from  the 
whale  it  swung  inboard,  and  as  it  came  over  the 
main  hatch,  it  was  lowered  into  the  hold.  There 
men  fell  upon  it  with  short  spades,  cutting  it 
into  small  pieces  and  distributing  them  equally 
about  the  ship  to  prevent  the  vessel  from  listing. 
It  took  most  of  the  day  to  strip  the  whale  of  its 
blubber.  When  this  had  been  finished  the  great 
flensed  carcass  stretched  out  along  the  ship's 
side  a  mass  of  blood-red  flesh.  The  final  work 
was  cutting  in  the  "  old  head." 

Long  John  with  an  axe  climbed  down  upon 


CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT    141 

the  whale's  back.  As  it  was  his  boat  that  had 
struck  the  whale  the  cutting  in  of  the  head  was 
his  job.  Nobody  envied  him  the  task.  The 
stripped  body  of  a  whale  offers  a  surface  as  slip- 
pery as  ice.  As  the  waves  rocked  the  whale, 
Long  John  had  much  ado  to  keep  his  footing. 
Once  he  fell  and  almost  tumbled  into  the  water. 
Finally  he  cut  himself  two  foot-holds  and  began 
to  wield  his  axe,  raining  blows  upon  the  neck. 
He  chopped  through  from  the  upper  neck  sur- 
face into  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  thus  loosen- 
ing the  head  and  upper  jaw  from  the  body.  The 
lower  jaw  is  devoid  of  teeth.  The  tackle  hook 
having  been  fixed  in  the  tip-top  of  the  head's 
bowlike  curve,  the  windlass  men  heaved  away. 
Up  rose  the  head  above  the  bulwarks  and  swung 
inwards. 

"Lower,  lower  away!"  cried  the  mate. 

Down  came  the  head  upon  the  deck  and  a 
great  cheer  went  up.  The  "  old  head  "  was  safe. 
Immediately  afterwards,  the  mate  came  forward 
with  a  bottle  of  Jamaica  rum  and  gave  each 
man  a  swig.  "  Bringing  in  his  old  head,"  as  it 
is  called,  is  a  memorable  event  in  cutting    in  a 


142     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

whale,  and  is  always  celebrated  by  dealing  out 
a  drink  all  around. 

Great  hunks  of  meat  were  cut  out  from  the 
carcass.  These  were  hung  over  the  bow.  The 
meat  was  served  in  the  form  of  steaks  and  sau- 
sages in  both  forecastle  and  cabin.  And  let  me 
give  my  testimony  right  here  that  whale  steak 
is  mighty  good  eating.  It  tastes  something  like 
tender  beef,  though  it  is  coarser  grained  and  of 
ranker  flavor.  We  preferred  to  eat  it  as  steaks, 
though  made  into  meat  balls  with  gravy  it  was 
extremely  toothsome.  I  do  not  know  how  whale 
would  taste  if  served  on  the  home  table,  but  at 
sea,  after  months  of  salt  horse  and  "  sow  belly," 
it  was  delicious.  The  hunks  became  coated  with 
ice  over  the  bow  and  kept  well.  They  lasted  us 
for  several  weeks. 

When  the  carcass  was  cut  adrift  it  went  float- 
ing astern.  Flocks  of  gulls  and  sea  birds  that 
had  been  constantly  hovering  about  the  ship  in 
hundreds  waiting  for  the  feast  swooped  down 
upon  it.  The  body  washed  slowly  out  of  sight, 
still  swarmed  over  by  the  gulls. 

The  head  rested  in  the  waist  near  the  poop. 


CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT    143 

It  was,  I  should  say,  twelve  feet  high  at  the  crest 
of  the  bow,  and  suggested  some  strange  sort  of 
tent.  I  stepped  inside  it  without  bending  my 
head  and  walked  about  in  it.  Its  sides  were 
shaggy  with  the  long  hair  hanging  from  the 
teeth  or  baleen,  and  the  interior  resembled,  in  a 
way,  a  In  inter's  forest  lodge  made  of  pine 
boughs.  If  the  head  had  been  in  a  forest  instead 
of  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  it  would  have  formed  an 
ideal  shelter  for  a  winter's  night  with  a  wood  fire 
burning  at  the  opening. 

Only  the  lower  tip  of  the  head  or  what  we 
might  call  the  nose  rested  on  the  deck.  It  was 
supported  otherwise  upon  the  teeth.  I  now  had 
my  first  opportunity  to  see  baleen  in  its  natural 
setting.  The  teeth  viewed  from  the  outside 
looked  something  like  the  interior  of  a  piano. 
The  whale's  gums,  following  the  bony  skeleton 
of  the  jaw,  formed  an  arched  and  undulant  line 
from  nose  tip  to  the  back  of  the  jaw.  The  front 
teeth  were  six  inches  long;  the  back  ones  were 
ten  feet.  Each  tooth,  big  and  little  alike,  was 
formed  of  a  thin  slab  of  bluish  whalebone,  al- 
most flat.     The  largest  of  these  slabs  were  six 


144     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

inches  broad  at  their  base  in  the  gum.  The 
smallest  were  an  inch.  All  tapered  to  a  point. 
They  were  set  in  the  gum  with  the  flat  surfaces 
together  and  almost  touching.  They  were  ex- 
tremely pliant  and  at  the  outer  ends  could  be 
pulled  wide  apart.  The  inner  edges  were  hung 
with  black  coarse  hair,  which  seemed  exactly 
like  that  of  a  horse's  tail.  The  hair  on  the  small 
front  teeth  was  an  inch  long  perhaps;  on  the 
back  teeth,  it  was  from  six  to  ten  inches  long. 

Such  teeth  are  beautifully  adapted  to  the 
animal's  feeding  habits.  The  baleen  whale 
feeds  on  a  kind  of  jelly  fish.  We  saw  at  times 
the  sea  covered  with  these  flat,  round,  whitish 
living  discs.  The  whale  swims  through  an  area 
of  this  food  with  its  mouth  open.  When  it  has 
obtained  a  mouthful,  it  closes  its  jaws.  The 
water  is  forced  out  between  the  slab-like  teeth; 
the  jelly  fish  remain  tangled  in  the  hair  to  be 
gulped  down. 

Our  first  job  after  the  cutting  in  of  the  whale 
was  to  cut  the  baleen  from  the  jaw.  It  was 
cut  away  in  bunches  of  ten  or  a  dozen  slabs  held 
together  by  the  gums  and  stowed  away  in  the 


CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT    145 

hold  not  to  be  touched  again  until  later  in  the 
voyage. 

While  the  baleen  was  being  prepared  for  stow- 
age, the  lid  was  removed  from  the  try-works, 
uncovering  the  two  big  copper  caldrons.  A 
fire  was  started  in  the  furnace  with  kindling  and 
a  handful  of  coal,  but  kept  going  thereafter  with 
tried-out  blubber  called  "  scrap."  Two  men 
dressed  in  oil-skins  were  sent  down  into  the  blub- 
ber-room as  the  portion  of  the  hold  was  called  in 
which  the  blanket  pieces  of  blubber  had  been 
stowed.  Their  oil-skins  were  to  protect  them 
from  the  oil  which  oozed  from  the  blubber.  Oil- 
skins, however,  are  but  slight  protection  as  I 
learned  later  when  I  was  sent  into  the  blubber 
room  at  the  taking  of  another  whale.  The  oil 
soaks  through  the  water-proof  oil-skins  and  sat- 
urates one's  clothes  and  goes  clear  through  to 
the  skin  leaving  it  as  greasy  as  if  it  had  been 
rubbed  with  oil. 

A  whale's  blubber  lies  immediately  beneath 
its  skin,  which  is  black  and  rubbery  and  about  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  thick.  The  blubber  is  packed 
between  this  thin  covering  and  the  flesh  in  a  laver 


146     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

of  pink  and  opalescent  fat  from  six  inches  to 
two  feet  thick.  The  blubber  is  so  full  of  oil  that 
the  oil  exudes  from  it.  One  can  squeeze  the  oil 
from  a  piece  of  raw  blubber  as  water  from  a 
sponge. 

The  two  blubber-room  men  with  short  handled 
spades  cut  the  great  blankets  of  blubber  in  what 
in  whaling  parlance  are  called  "  horse  pieces." 
These  horse  pieces  are  two  or  three  feet  long 
and  about  six  inches  wide.  They  are  pitched 
into  tubs  on  deck  and  the  tubs  dragged  forward 
to  the  mincing  vat.  This  is  an  immense  oblong 
tub  across  the  top  of  which  is  fastened  a  plank. 
Two  sailors  with  mincing  knives  are  stationed 
at  each  end  of  the  plank.  The  mincing  knife 
is  like  a  carpenter's  drawing  knife,  except  that 
the  edge  is  on  the  outside.  The  sailor  lajTs  a 
horse  piece  along  the  plank.  Then  grasping 
the  mincing  knife  by  its  two  handles,  he  passes 
the  blade  back  and  forth  from  side  to  side  across 
the  blubber  until  it  has  been  cut  into  leaves 
something  like  those  of  a  book,  each  leaf  per- 
haps a  quarter  of  an  inch  thick  and  all  of  them 
held  together  at  the  back  by  the  black  skin.  Thus 
minced  the  horse  pieces   are  pitch-forked   into 


CUTTING  IN  AND  TRYING  OUT    147 

the  caldrons  that  are  kept  bubbling  with  boiling 
oil.  When  the  oil  has  been  boiled  out  of  them, 
the  horse-pieces,  now  shrunken  and  twisted  into 
hard,  brittle  lumps,  called  "  scrap,"  are  skimmed 
off  and  thrown  into  a  vat  at  the  port  side  of  the 
try-works  to  be  used  later  as  fuel  in  trying  out 
the  remainder  of  the  blubber.  The  oil  is  ladled 
off  into  a  cooling  vat  at  the  starboard  side  where, 
after  it  has  cooled,  it  is  siphoned  into  hogsheads 
or  tanks  and  these  are  later  stowed  in  the 
hold. 

The  trying  out  of  the  whale  gave  several  deli- 
cacies to  the  forecastle  menu.  Hardtack  biscuit 
soaked  in  buckets  of  sea  water  and  then  boiled 
in  the  bubbling  caldrons  of  oil  made  relishing 
morsels.  The  crisp,  tried-out  blubber,  which 
looked  like  honey-comb,  was  palatable  to  some. 
Black  whale  skin  freed  of  blubber  and  cut  into 
small  cubes  and  pickled  in  salt  and  vinegar  had 
a  rather  agreeable  taste,  though  it  was  much 
like  eating  pickled  rubber.  These  things  with 
whale  steaks  and  whale  sausages  made  trying- 
out  days  a  season  of  continual  feasting. 

At  night  "  sera])  "  was  put  into  an  iron  basket 
swung  between  the   two   chimneys   of  the  try- 


148     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

works  and  set  on  fire,  making  a  flaring  yellow 
blaze  which  lighted  the  ship  from  stem  to  stern 
and  threw  weird  shadows  everywhere.  The 
beacon  not  only  gave  us  plenty  of  light  to  work 
by,  but  advertised  the  brig's  good  luck  to  any 
ship  which  happened  in  sight  of  us.  In  the 
blubber-room,  holes  were  cut  in  a  blanket  piece 
and  rope  yarns,  having  been  rubbed  upon  the 
blubber,  were  coiled  in  the  hole  and  lighted.  As 
they  burned  they  lighted  the  oil  from  the  blub- 
ber. These  unique  lamps  had  all  the  oil  in  a 
ten-ton  blanket  piece  to  draw  on.  It  was  only 
the  wick  that  ever  gave  out.  New  strands  of 
rope  yarn  had  to  be  provided  from  time  to  time. 
Three  or  four  of  these  lamps  blazing  and  splut- 
tering made  the  blubber-room  bright. 

Working  night  and  day,  it  took  three  days 
to  cut  in  and  try  out  the  whale.  While  the  work 
was  going  on,  the  decks  were  so  greasy  that  we 
could  run  and  slide  anywhere  for  long  distances 
like  boys  on  ice.  After  the  whale  had  been  tried 
out  and  the  oil  casks  had  been  stowed  below,  we 
fell  upon  the  decks  and  paint  work  with  lye  and 
water.  Hard  work  soon  had  the  ship  looking 
as  bright  as  a  new  pin. 


CIUPTER  XIH 

SHAKING   HANDS  WITH  SIBERIA 

THE  ship's  prow  was  turned  northward  af- 
ter work  on  the  whale  had  been  finished. 
I  expected  we  should  soon  run  into  the  ice 
again.  We  sailed  on  and  on,  but  not  a  block 
of  ice  big  enough  to  make  a  highball  did  we  sight. 
The  white  floes  and  drifts  and  the  frozen  conti- 
nent floating  southward,  along  the  coasts  of 
which  we  had  cruised  for  whales  and  which  had 
surrounded  us  and  held  us  captive  for  three 
weeks,  had  disappeared  entirely.  The  warm 
water  from  the  south,  the  southern  winds,  and 
the  spring  sunshine  had  melted  the  ice.  Its  ut- 
ter disappearance  savored  of  magic. 

A  long  hilly  coast  rose  ahead  of  us  covered 
with  grass,  barren  of  trees  or  shrubs,  dotted  with 
blackened  skeletons  of  old  ice — an  utterly  deso- 
late land.     It  was  Siberia.     We  put  into  a  bight 

149 


150     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

called  St.  Lawrence  Bay.  There  was  an  Es- 
kimo village  on  the  shore.  The  huts  were  made 
of  whale  ribs  covered  with  hides  of  walrus  and 
reindeer.  In  the  warm  weather,  some  of  the 
hides  had  been  removed  and  we  saw  the  white 
gleaming  bones  of  the  frame  work.  We  could 
see  the  dogs  with  tails  curling  over  their  backs 
frisking  about  and  could  hear  their  clamor  as 
they  bayed  the  great  white-winged  thing  that 
had  come  up  from  over  the  sea's  verge. 

In  this  first  part  of  July  it  was  continuous 
day.  The  sun  set  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  in 
the  northwest.  Its  disc  remained  barely  below 
the  horizon — we  could  almost  see  its  flaming  rim. 
A  molten  glow  of  color  made  the  sky  resplen- 
dent just  above  it  as  it  passed  across  the  north 
pole.  It  rose  at  1 :30  in  the  morning  high  in 
the  northeast.  All  the  time  it  was  down  a  bril- 
liant twilight  prevailed — a  twilight  like  that 
which  in  our  temperate  zone  immediately  fol- 
lows the  sinking  of  the  sun  behind  a  hill.  We 
could  see  to  read  without  difficulty. 

Soon  boats  and  kyacks  were  putting  off  from 
the  village.     When  we  were  still  a  mile  or  two 


SIBERIA  151 

out,  strange  craft  came  alongside  and  Eskimo 
men,  women,  and  children  swarmed  aboard. 
Very  picturesque  they  looked  in  clothes  made 
of  the  skins  of  reindeer,  hair  seals,  dogs,  and 
squirrels,  oddly  trimmed  and  decorated  with  fur 
mosaics  in  queer  designs.  Some  of  the  women 
wore  over  their  furs  a  yellow  waterproof  cloak 
made  of  the  intestines  of  fish,  ornamented  with 
needle-work  figures  and  quite  neat  looking. 

The  men  and  the  older  women  had  animal 
faces  of  low  intelligence.  The  young  girls  were 
extremely  pretty,  with  glossy,  coal-black  hair, 
bright  black  eyes,  red  cheeks,  lips  like  ripe  cher- 
ries, and  gleaming  white  teeth  forever  showing 
in  the  laughter  of  irresponsibility  and  perfect 
health. 

The  captain  ordered  a  bucket  of  hardtack 
brought  out  in  honor  of  our  guests.  The  bis- 
cuit were  dumped  in  a  pile  on  the  main  deck. 
The  Eskimos  gathered  around  in  a  solemn  and 
dignified  circle.  The  old  men  divided  the  bread, 
giving  an  equal  number  of  hardtack  to  each. 

This  ceremony  of  welcome  over,  the  Eskimos 
were  given  the  freedom  of  the  ship,  or  at  least, 


152     A    TEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

took  it.  We  kept  a  careful  watch  upon  them, 
however,  to  see  that  they  took  nothing  else. 
Several  of  the  Eskimo  men  had  a  sufficient  smat- 
tering of  English  to  make  themselves  under- 
stood. They  had  picked  up  their  small  vocabu- 
lary among  the  whalers  which  every  spring  put 
in  at  the  little  ports  along  the  Siberian  and 
Alaskan  coasts.  One  of  them  had  been  whaling 
to  the  Arctic  Ocean  aboard  a  whale  ship  which 
some  accident  had  left  short  handed.  He  spoke 
better  English  than  any  of  the  others  and  was 
evidently  regarded  by  his  fellow  townsmen  as  a 
wonderfully  intellectual  person.  He  became 
quite  friendly  with  me,  showing  his  friendship 
by  begging  me  to  give  him  almost  everything  I 
had,  from  tobacco  to  clothes.  He  constantly 
used  an  Eskimo  word  the  meaning  of  which  all 
whalers  have  learned  and  it  assisted  him  materi- 
ally in  telling  his  stories — he  was  a  great  story 
teller.  This  word  was  ce  pau" — it  means  "  noth- 
ing." I  never  knew  before  how  important  noth- 
ing could  be  in  human  language.  Here  is  a 
sample  of  his  use  of  "nothing:" 

'  Winter,"  he  said,  "  sun  pan ;  daylight  pan. 


SIBERIA  153 

All  dark.  Water  pau;  all  ice.  Land  pau,  all 
snow.  Eskimo  igloo,  plenty  fire.  JMoss  in 
blubber  oil  all  time  blaze  up.  Cold  pau.  Plenty 
hot.  Eskimo,  he  sweat.  Clothes  pau.  Good 
time.     Hot  time.     Eat  plenty.     Sleep." 

This  seemed  to  me  a  good,  vivid  description. 
The  picture  was  there,  painted  chiefly  with 
"  nothing." 

Of  course  he  had  the  English  words  "  yes  " 
and  "  no  "  in  his  assortment,  but  his  way  of  us- 
ing them  was  pure  Eskimo.  For  instance: 
'  You  wear  no  clothes  in  winter? "  I  asked  him. 
"  No,"  he  replied.  "  No?  "  I  echoed  in  surprise. 
"  Yes,"  he  said.  His  "  yes  "  merely  affirmed  his 
"  no."  It  sometimes  required  a  devious  mental 
process  to  follow  him. 

A  pretty  girl  came  up  to  me  with  a  smile  and 
an  ingratiating  air. 

"  Tobac,"  she  said  holding  out  her  hand. 

I  handed  her  my  smoking  plug.  She  took 
half  of  it  at  one  cavernous  bite  and  gave  the  re- 
mainder back  to  me,  which  I  thought  consider- 
ate. She  enjoyed  the  tobacco.  She  chewed 
upon  it  hard,  working  her  /jaws  as  if  she  were 


154     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

masticating  a  dainty  tidbit.  Did  she  expector- 
ate? Not  a  drop.  She  evidently  did  not  pro- 
pose to  waste  any  of  the  flavor  of  that  good 
weed.  Neither  did  she  get  sick — that  pretty 
Eskimo  girl.  At  last  when  she  had  chewed  for 
twenty  minutes  or  so,  she  removed  her  quid  and 
stuck  it  behind  her  right  ear.  She  chewed  it  at 
intervals  later  on,  always  between  times  wearing 
it  conspicuously  behind  her  ear. 

I  rather  expected  our  guests  would  depart 
after  a  call  of  an  hour  or  so.  Not  so.  They 
had  come  to  stay  indefinitely.  When  they  be- 
came tired  they  lay  on  deck — it  didn't  make  any 
particular  difference  where — and  went  quietly 
to  sleep.  They  seemed  to  have  no  regular  time 
for  sleeping.  I  found  Eskimos  asleep  and 
awake  during  all  my  deck  watches.  As  it  was 
day  all  the  twenty-four  hours,  I  wondered  if 
these  people  without  chronometers  did  not  some- 
times get  their  hours  mixed  up. 

New  parties  of  Eskimos  kept  coming  to  see 
us.  One  of  these  had  killed  a  walrus  and  the 
skin  and  the  raw  meat,  butchered  into  portable 
cuts,  lay  in  the  bottom  of  their  big  family  canoe 


SIBERIA  155 

of  hide.  The  boat  was  tied  alongside  and  the 
Eskimos  came  aboard.  If  any  of  them  became 
hungry,  they  climbed  down  into  the  canoe  and 
ate  the  raw  walrus  meat,  smacking  their  lips 
over  it.  When  the  sailors  would  lean  over  the 
rail  to  watch  this  strange  feat  of  gastronomy, 
the  Eskimos  would  smile  up  at  them  with 
mouths  smeared  with  blood  and  hold  out  a  red 
chunk  in  invitation.     It  was  their  joke. 

We  loafed  in  St.  Lawrence  Bay  for  more  than 
a  week.  We  could  not  have  sailed  away  if  we 
had  wanted  to,  for  all  the  time  there  was  a  wind- 
less calm  and  the  sea  heaved  and  fell,  unruffled 
by  a  ripple,  like  a  vast  sheet  of  moving  mercury. 

It  was  weather  characteristic  of  the  Arctic 
summer — a  beautiful  dream  season  of  halcyon, 
silver  seas,  opalescent  haze,  and  tempered  golden 
sunlight.  To  the  men  in  skin  clothes,  it  was 
warm  weather,  but  one  had  only  to  step  from 
sunshine  to  shadow  to  pass  from  summer  to  win- 
ter. One  perspired  in  the  sunlight;  in  the 
shadow  there  was  frost,  and  if  the  spot  were 
damp,  a  coating  of  ice. 

I  went  duck  hunting  with  a  boat's  crew  one 


156     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

day.  Mr.  Winchester,  who  headed  the  boat, 
was  a  good  hand  with  a  shotgun  and  brought 
back  a  fine  bag.  One  of  the  ducks,  knocked 
over  on  the  wing,  dropped  within  a  few  feet 
of  shore.  When  we  rowed  to  pick  it  up,  I 
touched  Siberia  with  an  oar.  I  felt  that  it  was 
a  sort  of  handshake  with  the  Asiatic  continent. 
I  never  landed  and  never  got  any  nearer. 

In  a  little  while,  most  of  us  had  traded  for  a 
number  of  nicely  tanned  hair-seal  skins  and  had 
set  the  Eskimo  women  and  girls  to  work  tailor- 
ing trousers  and  vests  and  coats.  It  was  mar- 
velous how  dextrous  they  were  at  cutting  and 
sewing.  They  took  no  measurements  and  yet 
their  garments  fitted  rather  snugly.  Before 
they  began  sewing  they  softened  the  edges  of 
the  skins  by  chewing  them.  They  wore  their 
thimble  on  their  index  finger  and  drove  the 
needle  into  one  side  of  the  skins  and  jerked  it 
through  from  the  other  side  with  such  amazing 
rapidity  that  the  two  movements  seemed  one. 
A  good  seamstress — and  all  seemed  remarkably 
expert — could  cut  and  sew  a  pair  of  trousers  in 
an  hour,  a  bit  of  work  it  would  have  taken  a 


SIBERIA  157 

sailor  a  day  or  two  to  accomplish.  We  could 
hire  a  seamstress  for  an  entire  morning  or  after- 
noon for  five  hardtack.  A  bowl  of  soup  with  a 
piece  of  salt  horse  was  sufficient  pay  for  a  day's 
labor. 

My  old  skin  clothes,  which  I  had  obtained 
from  the  slop-chest  were  greasy,  dirty,  and 
worn  and  I  had  an  Eskimo  woman  make  me  a 
complete  new  outfit  from  hair-seal  skins  I  pur- 
chased from  her  husband.  She  cut  out  a  coat, 
vest,  and  trousers,  spreading  the  skins  on  deck 
and  using  a  knife  in  cutting.  She  sat  cross- 
legged  on  deck  most  of  the  day  sewing  on  the 
garments  and  I  carefully  superintended  the  job. 
She  ornamented  the  coat  with  a  black  dogskin 
collar  and  edged  it  down  the  breast  and  around 
the  bottom  with  the  same  material,  which  set  off 
the  glistening  seal  skin  attractively.  I  also 
bought  a  new  squirrel  skin  shirt  with  a  hood  at- 
tached. When  I  appeared  on  deck  in  my  new 
toggery,  I  felt  quite  presentable. 

However,  I  was  not  alone  in  gorgeous  regalia. 
Most  of  my  shipmates  were  soon  looking  like 
animate   statues  of  silver  in  their  shining  seal 


158     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

skins.  Our  turns  up  and  down  deck  became 
fashion  parades.  We  strutted  like  peacocks,  it 
must  be  admitted,  and  displayed  our  fine  clothes 
to  best  advantage  under  the  eyes  of  the  Eskimo 
beauties. 

It  remained  for  Peter,  our  rolypoly  little 
Swede,  to  make  the  only  real,  simon-pure  con- 
quest. In  his  new  clothes,  which  sparkled  like 
a  silver  dollar  fresh  from  the  mint,  and  with  his 
fresh  boyish  face,  he  cut  quite  a  handsome  figure 
and  one  little  Eskimo  maid  fell  a  victim  to  his 
fatal  facinations.  "  'E's  killed  her  dead,"  said 
English  Bill  White.  She  was  perhaps  fifteen 
years  old,  roguish  eyed,  rosy  cheeked,  and  with 
coal-black  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  falling 
in  two  braids  at  the  sides  of  her  head.  Plump 
and  full  of  life  and  high  spirits,  the  gay  little 
creature  was  as  pretty  as  any  girl  I  saw  among 
the  Eskimos. 

Peter  was  all  devotion.  He  gave  his  sweet- 
heart the  lion's  share  of  all  his  meals,  feasting 
her  on  salt  horse,  hardtack,  soup,  and  ginger- 
bread which  to  her  primitive  palate  that  never 
had  risen  to  greater  gastronomic  heights  than 


SIBERIA  159 

blubber  and  raw  meat  must  have  seemed  epi- 
curean delicacies.  The  sailors  called  the  girl 
"  Mamie,"  which  was  very  different  from  the 
Eskimo  name  her  mother  spluttered  at  her.  If 
Peter  was  missed  at  any  time,  it  was  only  neces- 
sary to  locate  the  charming  Miss  Mamie,  and 
there  by  her  side  Peter  would  be  found,  speaking 
only  with  his  eyes  and  making  distinct  progress. 

Sometimes  Peter,  rinding  optical  language 
not  entirely  satisfactory,  pressed  into  his  service 
the  intellectual  Eskimo  as  interpreter.  These 
three-cornered  efforts  at  love  making  were 
amusing  to  all  who  chanced  to  overhear  them ; — 
the  dashing  young  Romeo  could  scarcely  talk 
English  himself,  the  interpreter  could  talk  even 
less  and  the  object  of  Peter's  adoration  could 
not  speak  a  word. 

As  the  upshot  of  this  interesting  affair,  the  lit- 
tle lady  and  Peter  plotted  between  them  that 
Peter  should  run  away  from  the  ship  and  live 
among  her  people.  This  plan  appealed  to  Peter 
who  was  a  cold  weather  product  himself  and 
almost  as  primitive  as  his  inamorata.  But  Peter 
made  one  mistake; — he  took  old   Xels  Xelson, 


160     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

his  countryman  and  side-partner,  into  his  confi- 
dence. Nelson  loved  the  boy  like  a  father  and 
did  his  best  to  persuade  him  to  give  up  the  idea, 
but  Peter  was  determined. 

One  twilight  midnight  with  the  sun  just  skim- 
ming below  the  horizon,  Peter  wrapped  from 
head  to  foot  in  an  Eskimo  woman's  mackintosh 
of  fish  intestine,  with  the  hood  over  his  head  and 
half  hiding  his  chubby  face,  climbed  over  the  rail 
into  an  Eskimo  boat  with  a  number  of  natives, 
his  sweetheart  among  them,  and  set  out  for 
shore.  Nelson  and  several  sailors  watched  the 
boat  paddle  away,  but  no  one  but  Nelson  knew 
that  the  person  bundled  up  in  the  native  rain- 
coat was  Peter.  The  boat  got  half  a  mile  from 
the  brig.  Then  Nelson  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
The  strain  was  too  much.  He  rushed  back  to 
the  quarter-deck  where  old  Gabriel  was  walking 
up  and  down. 

"  Peter's  run  away,"  Nelson  blurted  out. 
"  There  he  goes  in  that  boat.  That's  him 
dressed  up  like  a  woman  in    fish-gut  oil-skins." 

Without  ado  Gabriel  called  aft  the  watch, 
manned  a  boat,   and  set  out  in  pursuit.     The 


Peter's    Sweetheart 


SIBERIA  161 

Eskimo  canoe  was  quickly  overhauled  and  Peter 
was  captured  and  brought  back  aboard. 

*  You  ben  bigges'  fool  for  sech  a  liT  boy  I 
ever  have  see,"  said  Gabriel  severely.  "  You 
don't  know  you  freeze  to  deaf  up  here  in  winter 
time,  no? " 

Peter  had  nothing  to  say.  He  was  ashamed, 
but  he  was  mad,  too.  He  was  not  punished. 
When  Captain  Shorey  learned  of  the  escapade, 
he  merely  laughed.  Peter  took  the  matter 
quite  to  heart  and  pouted  for  days.  To  the  end 
of  the  voyage,  he  still  dreamed  of  his  Eskimo 
sweetheart  and  of  the  happiness  that  might  have 
been  his.     Every  time  he  spoke  of  her  his  eyes 

grew  bright.  "  She  was  fine  gal,"  he  used  to 
say. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MOONSHINE  AND  HYGIENE 

WE  noticed  that  several  of  our  Eskimo 
guests  appeared  at  times  to  be  slightly 
under  the  influence  of  liquor  and 
thought  perhaps  they  had  obtained  gin  or  rum 
from  some  whaling  vessel  that  had  touched  at 
the  port  before  we  arrived.  We  asked  the  in- 
tellectual Eskimo  where  these  fellows  had  got 
their  booze.  He  pointed  to  an  Eskimo  and 
said,  "  Him." 

"  Him"  was  a  lordly  person  dressed  in  elabor- 
ately trimmed  and  ornamented  skin  clothes. 
From  the  way  he  strutted  about,  we  had  fancied 
him  a  chief.  He  turned  out  be  a  "  moonshiner." 
This  doubtless  will  surprise  those  whose  ideas 
of  "  moonshiners  "  are  associated  with  southern 
Appalachian  ranges,  lonely  mountain  coves,  rev- 
enue raids,  and  romance.     But  frere  was  an  Es- 

162 


MOONSHINE  AND   HYGIENE      163 

kimo  "  moonshiner  "  who  made  unlicensed  whis- 
key under  the  midnight  sun  and  yet  was  as  gen- 
uine a  "  moonshiner  "  as  any  lawless  southern 
mountaineer.  The  sailors,  being  thirsty  souls, 
at  once  opened  negotiations  with  him  for  liquor. 
He  drew  from  beneath  his  deer-skin  coat  a  skin 
bottle  filled  with  liquor  and  sold  it  to  us  for  fif- 
teen hardtack.  Wherefore  there  was,  for  a 
time,  joy  in  the  forecastle — in  limited  quantity, 
for  the  bottle  was  small.  This  product  of  the 
ice-bound  North  was  the  hottest  stuff  I  ever 
tasted. 

The  captain  was  not  long  in  discovering  that 
the  Eskimo  had  liquor  to  sell  and  sent  a  boat 
ashore  with  a  demijohn.  The  jug  was  brought 
back  filled  with  Siberian  "  moonshine,"  which 
had  been  paid  for  with  a  sack  of  flour.  The 
boat's  crew  found  on  the  beach  a  little  distillery 
in  comparison  with  which  the  pot  stills  of  the 
Kentucky  and  Tennessee  mountains,  made  of 
old  kitchen  kettles  would  seem  elaborate  and 
up-to-date  plants.  The  still  itself  was  an  old 
tin  oil  can;  the  worm,  a  twisted  gun  barrel;  the 
flake-stand,    a    small    powder    keg.     The    mash 


164     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

used  in  making  the  liquor,  we  learned,  was  a  fer- 
mented mixture  of  flour  and  molasses  obtained 
in  trade  from  whale  ships.  It  was  boiled  in  the 
still,  a  twist  of  moss  blazing  in  a  pan  of  blubber 
oil  doing  duty  as  a  furnace.  The  vapor  from 
the  boiling  mash  passed  through  the  worm  in 
the  flake-stand  and  was  condensed  by  ice-cold 
water  with  which  the  powder  keg  was  kept  con- 
stantly filled  by  hand.  The  liquor  dripped 
from  the  worm  into  a  battered  old  tomato  can. 
It  was  called  "  kootch "  and  was  potently  in- 
toxicating. An  Eskimo  drunk  on  "  kootch " 
was  said  to  be  brave  enough  to  tackle  a  polar 
bear,  single-handed.  The  little  still  was  oper- 
ated in  full  view  of  the  villagers.  There  was  no 
need  of  secrecy.  Siberia  boasted  no  revenue 
raiders. 

The  owner  of  the  plant  did  an  extensive  trade 
up  and  down  the  coast  and  it  was  said  natives 
from  Diomede  Islands  and  Alaska  paddled  over 
in  their  canoes  and  bidarkas  to  buy  his  liquor. 
They  paid  for  it  in  walrus  tusk  ivory,  whale 
bone,  and  skins  and  the  "  moonshiner  "  was  the 
richest  man  in  all  that  part  of  Siberia. 


MOONSHINE   AND    HYGIENE      165 

If  contact  with  civilization  had  taught  the  Es- 
kimo the  art  of  distillation  and  drunkenness,  it 
also  had  improved  living  conditions  among 
them.  Many  owned  rifles.  Their  spears  and 
harpoons  were  steel  tipped.  They  bartered  for 
flour,  molasses,  sugar,  and  all  kinds  of  canned 
goods  with  the  whale  ships  every  summer. 
They  had  learned  to  cook.  There  was  a  stove 
in  the  village.  The  intellectual  Eskimo  boasted 
of  the  stove  as  showing  the  high  degree  of  civili- 
zation achieved  by  his  people.  The  stove,  be  it 
added,  was  used  chiefly  for  heating  purposes 
in  winter  and  remained  idle  in  summer.  The 
natives  regarded  the  cooked  foods  of  the  white 
man  as  luxuries  to  be  indulged  in  only  occasion- 
ally in  a  spirit  of  connoisseurship.  They  still 
preferred  their  immemorial  diet  of  blubber  and 
raw  meat. 

Aside  from  these  faint  touches  of  civilization, 
the  Eskimos  were  as  primitive  in  their  life  and 
mental  processes  as  people  who  suddenly  had 
stepped  into  the  present  out  of  the  world  of 
ten  thousand  years  ago.  I  fancy  Adam  and 
Eve  would  have  lived  after  the  manner  of  the 


166     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

Eskimos  if  the  Garden  of  Eden  had  been  close 
to  the  North  Pole. 

There  is  apparently  no  government  or  law 
among  these  Eskimos.  They  have  no  chiefs. 
When  it  becomes  necessary  to  conduct  any  busi- 
ness of  public  importance  with  outsiders,  it  is 
looked  after  b}^  the  old  men.  The  Eskimos  are 
a  race,  one  may  say,  of  individuals.  Each  one 
lives  his  life  according  to  his  own  ideas;  without 
let  or  hindrance.  Each  is  a  law  unto  himself. 
Under  these  conditions  one  might  expect  they 
would  hold  to  the  rule  of  the  strong  arm  under 
which  might  makes  right.  This  is  far  from  true. 
There  is  little  crime  among  them.  Murder  is 
extremely  rare.  Though  they  sometimes  steal 
from  white  men — the  sailors  on  the  brig  were 
warned  that  they  would  steal  anything  not  nailed 
down — they  are  said  never — or  hardly  ever — to 
steal  from  each  other.  They  have  a  nice  respect 
for  the  rights  of  their  neighbors.  They  are  not 
exactly  a  Golden  Rule  people,  but  they  mind 
their  own  business. 

The  in  frequency  of  crime  among  them  seems 
stranger  when  one  learns  that  they  never  punish 


MOONSHINE   AND    HYGIENE      167 

their  children.  Eskimo  children  out-Topsy 
Topsy  in  "  just  growing."  I  was  informed  that 
they  are  never  spanked,  cuffed,  or  boxed  on  the 
ears.  Their  little  misdemeanors  are  quietly  ig- 
nored. It  might  seem  logical  to  expect  these 
ungoverned  and  lawless  little  fellows  to  grow  up 
into  bad  men  and  women.  But  the  ethical  tradi- 
tion of  the  race  holds  them  straight. 

When  a  crime  occurs,  the  punishment  meted 
out  fits  it  as  exactly  as  possible.  We  heard  of  a 
murder  among  the  Eskimos  around  St.  Law- 
rence Bay  the  punishment  of  which  furnishes  a 
typical  example  of  Eskimo  justice.  A  young 
man  years  before  had  slain  a  missionary  by 
shooting  him  with  a  rifle.  The  old  men  of  the 
tribe  tried  the  murderer  and  condemned  him  to 
death.  His  own  father  executed  the  sentence 
with  the  same  rifle  with  which  the  missionary 
had  been  killed. 

Tuberculosis  is  a  greater  scourge  among  the 
Eskimos  than  among  the  peoples  of  civilization. 
This  was  the  last  disease  I  expected  to  find  in 
the  cold,  pure  air  of  the  Arctic  region.  But  I 
was  told  that  it  caused  more  than  fifty  per  cent. 


168     A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

of  the  deaths  among  the  natives.  These  condi- 
tions have  been  changed  for  the  better  within  the 
last  few  years.  School  teachers,  missionaries,  and 
traveling  physicians  appointed  by  the  United 
States  government  have  taught  the  natives  of 
Alaska  hygiene  and  these  have  passed  on  the 
lesson  to  their  kinsmen  of  Siberia.  Long  after 
my  voyage  had  ended,  Captain  A.  J.  Hender- 
son, of  the  revenue  cutter  Thetis  and  a  pioneer 
judge  of  Uncle  Sam's  "  floating  court  "  in  Beh- 
ring  Sea  and  Arctic  Ocean  waters,  told  me  of 
the  work  he  had  done  in  spreading  abroad  the 
gospel  of  health  among  the  Eskimos. 

Finding  tuberculosis  carrying  off  the  natives 
by  wholesale,  Captain  Henderson  began  the 
first  systematic  crusade  against  the  disease  dur- 
ing a  summer  voyage  of  his  vessel  in  the  north. 
In  each  village  at  which  the  Thetis  touched,  he 
took  the  ship's  doctor  ashore  and  had  him  deliver 
through  an  interpreter  a  lecture  on  tuberculosis. 
Though  the  Eskimos  lived  an  out-door  life  in 
summer,  they  shut  themselves  up  in  their  igloos 
in  winter,  venturing  out  only  when  necessity 
compelled  them,  and  living  in  a  super-heated  at- 


MOONSHINE   AND    HYGIENE      169 

mosphere  without  ventilation.  As  a  result  their 
winter  igloos  became  veritable  culture  beds  of 
the  disease. 

Those  afflicted  had  no  idea  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  them.  Their  witch  doctors  believed 
that  they  were  obsessed  by  devils  and  attempted 
by  incantations  to  exorcise  the  evil  spirits.  The 
doctor  of  the  Thetis  had  difficulty  in  making  the 
natives  understand  that  the  organism  that  caused 
their  sickness  was  alive,  though  invisible.  But 
he  did  succeed  in  making  them  understand  that 
the  disease  was  communicated  by  indiscriminate 
expectoration  and  that  prevention  and  cure  lay 
in  plenty  of  fresh  air,  cleanliness,  and  whole- 
some food. 

In  all  the  villages,  Captain  Henderson  found 
the  igloos  offensively  filthy  and  garbage  and 
oll'al  scattered  about  the  huts  in  heaps.  He  made 
the  Eskimos  haul  these  heaps  to  sea  in  boats  and 
dump  them  overboard.  He  made  them  clean 
their  igloos  thoroughly  and  take  off  the  roofs 
to  allow  the  sun  and  rains  to  purify  the  interiors. 
After  this  unroofing,  Captain  Henderson  said, 
the  villages  looked  as  if  a  cvclone  had  struck 


170     A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

them.  He  taught  the  natives  how  to  sew  to- 
gether sputum  cups  of  skin  and  cautioned  the 
afflicted  ones  against  expectoration  except  in 
these  receptacles. 

The  Eskimos  were  alive  to  the  seriousness  of 
the  situation  and  did  their  utmost  to  follow  out 
these  hygienic  instructions  to  the  last  detail.  As 
a  result  of  this  first  missionary  campaign  in  the 
cause  of  health,  the  Eskimos  have  begun  to  keep 
their  igloos  clean  and  to  ventilate  them  in  winter. 
There  has  grown  up  among  them  an  unwritten 
law  against  indiscriminate  expectoration  more 
carefully  observed  than  such  ordinances  in 
American  cities.  The  villages  have  been  gradu- 
ally  turned  into  open-air  sanitariums  and  the 
death  rate  from  tuberculosis  has  been  materially 
reduced. 


CHAPTER  XV 


NEWS  FROM   HOME 


WITH  the  first  breeze,  we  set  sail  for 
Port  Clarence,  Alaska,  the  northern 
rendezvous  of  the  Arctic  Ocean  whal- 
ing fleet  in  early  summer.  There  in  the  latter 
part  of  June  or  the  early  part  of  July,  the  fleet 
always  met  the  four-masted  schooner  Jennie, 
the  tender  from  San  Francisco,  by  which  all 
firms  in  the  whaling  trade  sent  mail  and  sup- 
plies to  their  vessels.  On  our  way  across  from 
Siberia  to  Alaska,  we  passed  just  south  of 
Behring  Straits  and  had  our  first  distant  glimpse 
of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  When  we  dropped  anchor 
in  the  windy  roadstead  of  Port  Clarence,  eight- 
een whale  ships  were  there  ahead  of  us. 

The  land  about  Port  Clarence  was  flat  and 
covered  with  tall,  rank  grass — a  region  of  tun- 
dra stretching  away  to  distant  hills.     The  Jen- 

171 


172     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

nie  came  in  direct  from  San  Francisco  soon  af- 
ter we  arrived.  Boats  from  the  whale  ships 
swarmed  about  her  as  soon  as  she  dropped  an- 
chor, eager  for  letters  and  newspapers.  Our 
mate  brought  back  a  big  bundle  of  San  Fran- 
cisco newspapers  which  were  sent  forward  after 
the  cabin  had  read  them.  They  gave  us  our 
first  news  since  leaving  Honolulu  of  how  the 
great  world  was  wagging.  Every  man  in  the 
forecastle  who  could  read  read  these  papers 
from  the  first  headline  to  the  last  advertisement. 
It  seemed  good  to  get  into  touch  once  more  with 
the  men  and  events  of  civilization.  Exiles  of 
the  sea,  the  news  of  our  country  seemed  to  have 
an  intimate  personal  meaning  to  us  which  it 
never  could  possibly  have  to  stay-at-homes  to 
whom  newspapers  are  every-day,  casual  budgets 
of  gossip  and  information.  I  remember  that  a 
telegraphic  brevity  describing  a  murder  in  my 
native  state  seemed  like  a  message  from  home. 
Among  the  Eskimos  who  came  aboard  the 
brig  from  the  large  village  on  shore,  was  a  white 
man  dressed  like  an  Eskimo  to  the  last  detail 
and  looking  like  one  except  for  a  heavy  beard. 


NEWS   FROM   HOME  173 

He  had  run  away  from  a  whale  ship  three  years 
before,  hoping  to  make  his  way  to  some  white 
settlement  to  the  south  and  there  secure  passage 
on  shipboard  back  to  San  Francisco.  He  had 
escaped,  he  said,  in  an  Eskimo  kyack  tied  along- 
side his  ship.  As  soon  as  he  was  missed  officers 
and  boatsteerers  put  ashore  in  a  boat  and  trailed 
him.  He  led  his  pursurers  a  long  chase  inland 
and  though  he  was  shot  at  several  times,  he  man- 
aged to  elude  them  and  reach  the  safety  of  the 
hills. 

After  he  had  seen  the  whaling  fleet  sail  away, 
he  ventured  back  to  the  Eskimo  village  on  shore 
where  he  was  welcomed  by  the  natives.  He 
soon  found  that  escape  by  land  was  practically 
impossible;  the  nearest  white  settlement  was 
hundreds  of  miles  distant  and  he  would  have  to 
thread  his  way  through  pathless  forests  and 
across  ranges  of  mountains  covered  at  all  sea- 
sons with  ice  and  snow.  Moreover,  he  learned 
what  he  should  have  known  before  he  ran  away 
that  no  vessels  except  whaling  ships,  their  ten- 
der, and  an  occasional  revenue  cutter  ever 
touched  at  Port  Clarence  which  at  that  time  was 


174     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

far  north  of  the  outmost  verge  of  the  world's 
commerce.  There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to 
do  but  settle  among  the  Eskimos  and  wait  for 
the  arrival  of  the  whaling  fleet  in  the  following 
summer. 

During  the  long  Arctic  night,  with  the  tem- 
perature forty  and  fifty  degrees  below  zero,  he 
lived  in  an  igloo  after  the  manner  of  the  natives ; 
learned  to  eat  raw  meat  and  blubber — there  was 
nothing  else  to  eat — became  fluent  in  the  Es- 
kimo language;  and  took  an  Eskimo  girl  for  a 
wife.  He  found  existence  among  these  human 
anachronisms  left  over  from  the  stone  age  a 
monotonously  dreary  and  soul-wearying  experi- 
ence, and  he  waited  with  nervous  impatience  for 
the  coming  of  the  fleet  with  its  annual  oppor- 
tunity for  getting  back  to  civilization. 

The  first  year  passed  and  the  ships  anchored  in 
Port  Clarence.  He  hurried  out  in  his  kyack  to 
ask  the  Captains  for  permission  to  work  his  way 
back  to  San  Francisco.  He  never  once  doubted 
that  they  would  give  him  his  chance.  But  a 
sad  surprise  was  in  store  for  him.  From  ship  to 
ship  he  went,  begging  to  be  allowed  to  remain 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  175 

aboard,  but  the  hard-hearted  captains  coldly  re- 
fused him,  one  after  the  other.  He  was  a  de- 
serter, they  told  him;  he  had  made  his  bed  and 
he  could  lie  in  it;  to  take  him  away  would  en- 
courage others  to  desert.  Some  captains  cursed 
him;  some  ordered  him  off  their  vessels.  Fi- 
nally the  ships  sailed  away  for  the  whaling 
grounds,  leaving  him  marooned  on  the  bleak 
shore  to  pass  another  year  in  the  squalor  of  his 
igloo. 

Next  year  when  the  whaling  fleet  came  again 
it  was  the  same  story  over  again.  Again  he 
watched  the  ships  arrive  with  a  heart  beating 
high  with  hope  and  again  he  saw  their  topmasts 
disappear  over  the  horizon,  leaving  him  hopeless 
and  wretched  behind.  Before  he  came  aboard 
the  brig,  he  had  made  the  rounds  of  the  other 
ships  and  had  met  with  the  same  refusals  as  of 
yore.  I  saw  him  go  aft  and  plead  with  Captain 
Shorey  and  that  stern  old  sea  dog  turned  him 
down  as  curtly  as  the  other  skippers  had  done. 
The  ships  sailed  away,  leaving  him  to  his  fate. 
To  me  his  story  was  the  most  pathetic  that  ever 
fell    within    my    personal    experience.     I    never 


176     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

learned  whether  he  ever  managed  somehow  to 
get  back  home  or  left  his  bones  to  bleach  upon 
the  frozen  tundra. 

From  Port  Clarence,  we  headed  back  to  Un- 
alaska  to  ship  our  whale  bone  to  San  Francisco 
by  steamer.  Midway  of  our  run  down  the 
Behring  Sea  a  thick  fog  closed  about  us  and  we 
kept  our  fog  horn  booming.  Soon,  off  our 
bows,  we  heard  another  fog  horn.  It  seemed  to 
be  coming  closer.  Our  cooper,  an  old  navy  bug- 
ler, became  suspicious.  He  got  out  his  old 
bugle  and  sounded  "  assembly "  sharply.  As 
the  first  note  struck  into  the  mist,  the  other  fog 
horn  ceased  its  blowing.  We  did  not  hear  it 
again.  When  the  mist  lifted,  no  vessel  was  in 
sight,  but  the  situation  was  clear.  We  had 
chanced  upon  a  poaching  sealer  and  when  she 
heard  our  cooper's  bugle,  she  concluded  we  were 
a  revenue  cutter  and  took  to  her  heels. 

A  day  or  two  later,  we  saw  the  revenue  cutter 
Corwin  chasing  a  poacher.  Heeled  over  under 
crowded  sail,  the  sealing  schooner  was  scurrying 
before  a  stiff  wind.  The  Corwin  was  plowing 
in  hot  pursuit,  smoke  pouring  from  her  funnel 


NEWS   FROM   HOME  177 

and  hanging  thick  in  the  wake  of  the  chase. 
She  was  gaining  steadily,  for  she  was  a  steam- 
ship and  the  schooner  had  only  her  sails  to  de- 
pend on.  Finally  the  revenue  cutter  sent  a 
solid  shot  across  the  schooner's  hows.  The  ball 
knocked  up  a  great  splash  of  water.  But  the 
poacher  did  not  heave  to — just  kept  on  her  way, 
leaning  so  far  over  that  the  clews  of  her  lower 
sails  almost  touched  the  waves  and  a  big  white 
feather  of  spray  stood  up  in  front  of  her.  So 
pursuer  and  pursued  passed  over  the  horizon 
and  we  did  not  see  the  end  of  the  hunt.  But 
we  knew  that  there  could  be  but  one  end.  The 
fate  of  that  poacher  was  sealed.  Only  a  fog 
could  save  her,  and  the  sky  was  clear. 

We  passed  close  to  St.  George  Island,  the 
southernmost  of  the  Pribiloff  group,  the  breeding 
place  of  the  fur  seals.  As  we  came  near  the 
shores,  the  air  literally  shook  with  the  raucous, 
throbbing  bark  of  countless  seals.  The  din  was 
deafening.  Along  the  shore,  a  shelving  beach 
ran  up  to  rocky  declivities  and  beach  and  rocks 
were  packed  with  seals.  There  may  have  been 
a  hundred  thousand;  there  may  have  been  a  mil- 


178     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

lion ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  every  seal  was  barking. 
The  water  alongshore  swarmed  with  them. 
Thousands  of  heads  were  sticking  out  of  the  sea. 
Thousands  of  other  seals  were  playing,  breach- 
ing out  of  the  water  like  porpoises.  They  swam 
close  to  the  brig  and  floated  lazily  on  the  surface, 
staring  at  us  unafraid.  If  we  had  been  poach- 
ers, I  should  think  we  could  have  taken  several 
hundred  thousand  dollars  worth  of  seals  without 
difficulty. 

A  dozen  little  pup  seals  whose  fur  was  of  a 
snowy  and  unspotted  white  came  swimming 
about  the  vessel.  These  sea  babies  were  soft, 
furry,  cunning  little  fellows  and  they  paddled 
about  the  brig,  sniffing  at  the  strange  monster 
that  had  invaded  their  home.  They  seemed  ab- 
solutely fearless  and  gazed  up  at  us  out  of  big, 
brown,  wondering,  friendly  eyes.  Sealers  kill 
them,  as  their  fur  makes  beautiful  edgings  and 
borders  for  fur  garments. 

The  fur  seals  are  supposed  to  pass  the  winter 
somewhere  in  the  South  Pacific,  but  whether  in 
the  open  sea  or  on  land  has  never  been  definitely 
learned.     From  their  mysterious  southern  hid- 


NEWS   FROM   HOME  179 

ing  places,  they  set  out  for  the  Xorth  in  the 
early  spring.  They  first  appear  in  March  in 
the  waters  off  California.  Coastwise  vessels 
find  the  sea  alive  with  thousands  of  them.  They 
travel  slowly  northward  following  the  coast  line, 
fifty  or  a  hundred  miles  out  at  sea,  feeding  on 
fish  and  sleeping  on  the  surface.  Regularly 
each  year  in  April,  a  revenue  cutter  setting  out 
from  Port  Townsend  for  patrol  service  in 
Behring  Sea  and  Arctic  Ocean  waters,  picks  up 
the  herd  and  convoys  it  to  the  Pribiloffs  to  guard 
it  against  the  attacks  of  poachers.  The  seals 
swarm  through  the  passes  between  the  Aleutian 
islands  in  May  and  arrive  at  the  Pribiloffs  in 
the  latter  part  of  that  month  or  early  in  June. 
They  remain  on  the  Pribiloffs  during  the 
breeding  and  rearing  season  and  begin  to  depart 
for  the  South  again  in  the  latter  part  of  Sep- 
tember. They  are  all  gone  as  a  rule  by  Novem- 
ber, though  in  some  years  the  last  ones  do  not 
leave  until  December.  They  are  again  seen  as 
they  crowd  through  the  Aleutian  channels,  but 
all  track  of  them  is  lost  a  few  hundred  miles  to 
the  south.     At  what  destination  thev  finallv  ar- 


180     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

rive  on  that  southward  exodus  no  man  knows. 
It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  sea. 

We  saw  no  whales  on  our  southward  passage 
and  did  not  much  expect  to  see  any,  though  we 
kept  a  lookout  at  the  mast-head  on  the  off 
chance  of  sighting  some  lone  spout.  The  sum- 
mer months  are  a  second  "  between  seasons," 
dividing  the  spring  whaling  in  Behring  Sea  from 
that  in  the  Arctic  Ocean  in  the  fall.  The 
whales  had  all  followed  the  retreating  ice  north- 
ward through  Behring  Straits. 

The  Fourth  of  July  found  us  in  the  middle 
of  Behring  Sea.  We  observed  the  glorious 
Fourth  by  hoisting  the  American  flag  to  our 
gaff-topsail  peak,  where  it  fluttered  all  day  long. 
Mr.  Winchester  came  forward  with  two  bottles 
of  Jamaica  rum  and  dealt  out  a  drink  all 
around. 

We  entered  Unalaska  harbor  by  the  same 
long,  narrow,  and  precipitous  channel  through 
which  we  had  passed  on  our  voyage  north  when 
we  put  into  the  harbor  to  have  the  captain's  leg 
set.  Negotiating  this  channel — I  should  say  it 
was  about  two  miles  long — was  another  illustra- 


NEWS   FROM    HOME  181 

tion  of  our  captain's  seamanship.  We  had  to 
tack  innumerable  times  from  one  side  of  the 
channel  to  the  other,  our  jib-boom  at  every  tack 
projecting  over  the  land  before  the  brig  came 
around.  We  finally  dropped  anchor  opposite 
the  old,  cross-crowned  Greek  church  which 
stands  in  the  center  of  the  struggling  village. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


SLIM  GOES  ON  STRIKE 


IT  was  the  heart  of  the  Arctic  summer  and 
the  high  hills  that  rose  all  about  the  town 
were  green  with  deep  grass — it  looked  as  if 
it  would  reach  a  man's  waist — and  ablaze  with 
wild  flowers.  I  was  surprised  to  see  such  a  riot 
of  blooms  in  this  far  northern  latitude,  but  there 
they  were,  and  every  off-shore  breeze  was  sweet 
with  their  fragrance.  The  village  was  dingy 
enough,  but  the  country  looked  alluring  and,  as 
the  day  after  we  dropped  anchor  was  Sunday 
and  nothing  to  do  aboard,  the  crew  decided  to 
ask  for  a  day's  liberty  ashore.  Bill  White,  the 
Englishman,  and  Slim,  our  Royal  Life  Guards- 
man, agreed  to  act  as  the  forecastle's  ambassa- 
dors to  the  cabin.  They  dressed  up  in  their 
smartest  clothes  and  went  aft  to  interview  Cap- 
tain Shorey  on  the  quarter-deck.     White  made 

182 


SLIM    GOES   ON   STRIKE       183 

the  speech  of  the  occasion  and  proffered  the 
forecastle's  request  in  his  best  rhetoric.  Cap- 
tain Shorey  puffed  silently  at  his  cigar.  "  I'll 
see  about  it,"  he  said.  That  closed  the  incident 
as  far  as  the  captain  was  concerned.  We  got 
no  shore  leave. 

As  the  day  wore  away  and  the  desired  permis- 
sion failed  to  materialize,  the  forecastle  became 
piqued  at  what  it  considered  the  skipper's  gra- 
tuitous ungraciousness.  Slim  waxed  particu- 
larly indignant. 

"  He'll  '  see  about  it,'  "  Slim  sneered.  "  He 
never  had  no  idea  of  letting  us  go  in  the  first 
place.  He's  ::  cold-blooded  son  of  a  sea  cook — 
that's  what  he  is — and  as  for  me,  I'll  never  do 
another  tap  of  work  aboard  the  bloody  hooker." 

This  was  strong  language.  Of  course,  none 
of  us  took  it  seriously,  feeling  sure  Slim  would 
reconsider  by  the  next  morning  and  turn  to  for 
work  with  the  rest  of  us.  But  we  did  not  know 
Slim.  Bright  and  early  Monday  morning,  the 
men  mustered  on  deck  and  went  to  work,  but 
Slim  remained  in  his  bunk. 

Having  rowed  our  whale  bone  to  the  dock  and 


184     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

stored  it  in  a  warehouse  to  await  the  first  steamer 
for  San  Francisco,  a  boat's  crew  towed  three  or 
four  hogsheads  roped  together  ashore  for  water. 
Another  boat  went  ashore  for  coal.  Those  left 
aboard  the  brig  were  put  to  work  in  the  hold 
near  the  main  hatch  under  the  supervision  of 
Mr.  Winchester.  The  mate  suddenly  noted 
Slim's  absence. 

"Where's  Slim?"  he  asked. 

Nobody  answered. 

"  He  didn't  go  ashore  in  the  boats,"'  said  the 
mate.     "  Where  is  he?  " 

Someone  volunteered  that  Slim  was  sick. 

"  Sick,  eh?  "  said  the  mate. 

He  hustled  off  to  the  forecastle  scuttle. 

"  Slim,"  he  sang  out,  "  what's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  I'm  sick,"  responded  Slim  from  his  bunk. 

"  If  you're  sick,"  said  the  mate,  "  come  aft 
and  report  yourself  sick  to  the  captain." 

In  a  little  while,  Slim  shuffled  back  to  the 
cabin.  A  few  minutes  later  wild  yells  came 
from  the  cabin.  We  stopped  work.  The  mate 
seemed  to  think  we  might  rush  to  the  rescue. 


— 
c5 


SLIM    GOES    ON    STRIKE       185 

"  Get  busy  there,"  he  roared.  "  Slew  that 
cask  around." 

The  yells  broke  off.  We  went  to  work  again. 
For  a  half  hour,  there  wras  silence  in  the  cabin. 
We  wondered  what  had  happened.  Slim  might 
have  been  murdered  for  all  we  knew.  Finally 
Slim  emerged  and  went  silently  forward.  We 
noticed  a  large  shaved  spot  on  the  top  of  his 
head  where  two  long  strips  of  court-plaster 
formed  a  black  cross. 

The  first  thing  Slim  did  after  getting  back  to 
the  forecastle  was  to  take  one  of  his  blue  flannel 
shirts  and,  while  none  of  the  offieers  was  look- 
ing, shin  up  the  ratlines  and  hang  it  on  the  fore- 
lift.  This  is  an  old-time  sailor  sign  of  distress 
and  means  trouble  aboard.  The  mate  soon 
spied  the  shirt  swinging  in  the  breeze. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  darned,"  lie  said.  "  Jump  up 
there  otic  of  you  and  take  that  shirt  down." 

Xo  one  stirred.  The  mate  called  the  cabin 
boy  and  the  young  Kanaka  brought  down  the 
shirt.  Slim  told  us  at  dinner  time  all  about  his 
adventure  in  the  cabin. 

"  I  goes  down  in  the  cabin,"  said  Slim,  "  and 


186     A    YEAR    WITH    A    WHALER 

the  captain  is  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pants  pockets,  smiling  friendly-like.  '  Hello, 
Slim,'  he  says.  '  Sit  down  in  this  chair.'  I  sits 
down  and  the  captain  says,  '  Well,  my  boy, 
what's  the  matter  with  you?'  'I'm  sick,'  says 
I.  "  Where  do  you  feel  bad? '  he  says.  '  I  ache 
all  over,'  says  I.  He  steps  over  in  front  of  me, 
still  with  that  little  smile  on  his  face.  '  I've  got 
good  medicine  aboard  this  ship,'  he  says, '  and  I'll 
fix  you  up  in  a  jiffy,  my  boy,'  says  he.  With 
that  he  jerks  one  of  his  hands  out  of  his  pocket 
and  he  has  a  revolver  clutched  in  it.  '  Here's 
the  medicine  you  need,'  he  says  and  he  bats  me 
over  the  cocoanut  with  the  gun. 

"The  blood  spurts  all  over  me  and  I  jumps 
up  and  yells,  but  the  captain  points  his  pistol 
at  me  and  orders  me  to  sit  down  again.  He 
storms  up  and  down  the  cabin  floor.  '  I'll  teach 
you  who's  master  aboard  this  ship,'  he  shouts 
and  for  a  minute  he  was  so  purple  in  the  face 
with  rage,  I  thought  he  was  going  to  murder  me 
for  sure.  By  and  by  he  cools  down.  '  Well, 
Slim,'  he  says,  '  I  guess  I  hit  you  a  little  harder 
than  I  meant  to,  but  I'm  a  bad  man  when  I  get 


SLIM    GOES    ON    STRIKE        187 

started.  You  need  tending  to  now,  sure 
enough.' 

"  So  he  has  the  cabin  boy  fetch  a  pan  of  warm 
water  and  he  washes  the  blood  out  of  my  hair 
with  his  own  hands  and  then  shaves  around  the 
cut  and  pastes  sticking  plaster  on.  That's  all. 
But  say,  will  I  have  the  law  on  him  when  we  get 
back  to  Frisco?     Will  I?" 

It  was  a  long  way  back  to  Frisco.  In  the 
meantime  we  wondered  what  was  in  store  for 
the  luckless  Irish  grenadier. 

That  afternoon,  the  revenue  cutter  Corxcin 
came  steaming  into  port  towing  a  poaching 
sealer  as  a  prize.  It  was  the  same  schooner, 
we  learned,  we  had  seen  the  Coricin  chasing  a 
few  days  before.  As  the  cutter  passed  us.  Slim 
sprang  on  the  forecastle  head  while  Captain 
Shorcy  and  everybody  aboard  the  brig  looked  at 
him  and,  waving  a  blue  flannel  shirt  frantically, 
shouted:  "Please  come  aboard.  I've  had 
trouble  aboard."  "  Aye,  aye,"  came  back  across 
the  water  from  the  government  patrol  vessel. 
Waving  a  shirt  has  no  significance  in  sea  tradi- 
tion, but   Slim   was   not   enough   of  a   sailor  to 


188     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

know  that,  and  besides,  he  wanted  to  leave  noth- 
ing undone  to  impress  the  revenue  cutter  officers 
with  the  urgency  of  his  case. 

No  sooner  had  the  Corwin  settled  to  her  berth 
at  the  pier  than  a  small  boat  with  bluejackets 
at  the  oars,  two  officers  in  gold  braid  and  epaul- 
ettes in  the  stern,  and  with  the  stars  and  stripes 
flying,  shot  out  from  under  her  quarter  and 
headed  for  the  brig. 

"  Aha,"  we  chuckled.  "  Captain  Shorey  has 
got  his  foot  in  it.  He  has  Uncle  Sam  to  deal 
with  now.  He  won't  hit  him  over  the  head  with 
a  revolver." 

The  boat  came  alongside  and  the  officers 
climbed  over  the  rail.  Captain  Shorey  wel- 
comed them  with  a  smile  and  elaborate  courtesy 
and  ushered  them  into  the  cabin.  Slim  was  sent 
for. 

"  Tell  'em  everything,  Slim,"  we  urged. 
"  Give  it  to  the  captain  hot  and  heavy.  He's  a 
brute  and  the  revenue  cutter  men  will  take  you 
off  the  brig  as  sure  as  shooting.  They  won't 
dare  leave  you  aboard  to  lead  a  dog's  life  for 
the  rest  of  the  voyage." 


SLIM    GOES    ON   STRIKE       189 

"  I'll  show  him  up,  all  right,"  was  Slim's  part- 
ing shot. 

Slim  came  back  from  the  cabin  a  little  later. 

"I  told  'em  everything,"  he  said.  "  They 
listened  to  everything  I  had  to  say  and  took 
down  a  lot  of  notes  in  a  book.  I  asked  'em  to 
take  me  off  the  brig  right  away,  for,  says  I, 
Captain  Shorey  will  kill  me  if  they  leave  me 
aboard.     I  guess  they'll  take  me  off." 

An  hour  later,  the  two  officers  of  the  Corwin 
emerged  from  the  cabin,  accompanied  by  Cap- 
tain Shorey.  They  were  puffing  complacently 
at  a  couple  of  the  captain's  cigars.  They 
seemed  in  high  good  humor.  xVfter  shaking 
hands  with  Captain  Shorey,  they  climbed  down 
into  their  boat  and  were  rowed  back  to  their 
vessel.  That  was  the  last  we  ever  saw  of  them. 
Poor  Slim  was  left  to  his  fate. 

And  his  fate  was  a  rough  one.  There  was 
no  outward  change  in  the  attitude  of  the  captain 
or  the  officers  of  the  brig  toward  him.  When- 
ever they  spoke  to  him,  they  did  it  with  as  much 
civility  as  they  showed  the  rest  of  us.  But  Slim 
was  compelled  to  work  on  deck  all  day  and  stand 


190     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

his  regular  night  watches  into  the  bargain.  That 
meant  he  got  eight  hours  sleep  during  twenty- 
four  hours  one  day  and  four  hours  sleep  during 
the  next.  As  the  ship  was  in  whaling  waters 
from  now  on,  the  crew  had  little  to  do  except 
man  the  boats.  But  Slim  always  had  plenty 
to  do.  While  we  smoked  our  pipes  and  lounged 
about,  he  was  kept  washing  paint  work,  slush- 
ing down  masts,  scraping  deck  and  knocking  the 
rust  off  the  anchors.  Any  one  of  a  hundred 
and  one  little  jobs  that  didn't  need  doing,  Slim 
did.  This  continued  until  the  brig  squared  her 
yards  for  the  homeward  voyage.  Slim  had  more 
than  three  months  of  it.  The  Lord  knows  it 
was  enough.  When  his  nagging  finally  ended, 
he  was  a  pale,  haggard  shadow  of  his  former  self. 
It  almost  killed  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


INTO  THE  ARCTIC 


FROM  Unalaska,  we  headed  north  for  the 
Arctic  Ocean.  For  one  day  of  calm,  we 
lay  again  off  the  little  Eskimo  village  of 
St.  Lawrence  Bay  and  again  had  the  natives  as 
our  guests.  Peter  made  an  elaborate  toilet  in 
expectation  of  seeing  once  more  his  little  Es- 
kimo sweetheart,  but  she  did  not  come  aboard. 
A  little  breeze  came  walking  over  the  sea  and 
pushed  us  on  northward.  On  August  15,  we 
sailed  through  Behring  Straits  and  were  at  last 
in  the  Arctic. 

The  straits  are  thirty-six  miles  wide,  with  East 
Cape,  a  rounded,  dome-shaped  mass  of  black 
basalt,  on  the  .Asiatic  side  and  on  the  American 
side  Cape  Prince  of  Wales,  a  headland  of 
sharper  outline,  but  neither  so  lofty  nor  so  sheer. 

In  between  the  two  capes  and  in  line  with  them, 

191 


192     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

lie  the  two  islands  of  Big  and  Little  Diomede. 
Through  the  three  narrow  channels  between  the 
capes  and  the  islands,  the  tide  runs  with  the 
swiftness  of  a  river's  current. 

The  Eskimos  constantly  cross  from  continent 
to  continent  in  small  boats.  In  still  weather  the 
passage  can  be  made  in  a  light  kyack  with  per- 
fect safety.  The  widest  of  the  three  channels 
is  that  between  Big  Diomede  and  East  Cape 
and  is,  I  should  say,  not  more  than  fifteen  miles 
across.  While  we  were  passing  through  the 
straits,  we  saw  a  party  of  Eskimos  in  a  skin  boat 
paddling  leisurely  across  from  America  to  Asia. 
They  no  doubt  had  been  on  a  visit  to  relatives 
or  friends  on  the  neighboring  continent.  We 
were  told  that  in  winter  when  the  straits  are 
frozen  solidly,  the  Eskimos  frequently  walk  from 
one  continent  to  the  other. 

While  we  were  sailing  close  to  the  American 
shore  soon  after  passing  through  the  straits,  the 
cry  of  "Walrus,  walrus!"  from  the  mast-head 
sent  the  crew  hurrying  to  the  rail  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  these  strange  creatures  which  we  had 
not  before  encountered.     We  were  passing  an 


Our    (J  nest*      Cuming    Aboard    in    St.    Lawrence    B;iv 


INTO   THE   ARCTIC  193 

immense  herd.  The  shore  was  crowded  with 
giant  bulks,  lying  perfectly  still  in  the  sun,  while 
the  waters  close  to  land  were  alive  with  bobbing 
heads.  At  a  distance  and  at  first  glance,  those 
on  shore  looked  like  a  vast  herd  of  cattle  resting 
after  grazing.  They  were  as  big  as  oxen  and 
when  the  sun  had  dried  them,  they  were  of  a 
pronounced  reddish  color.  Those  in  the  water 
looked  black. 

They  had  a  way  of  sticking  their  heads  and 
necks  straight  up  out  of  the  sea  which  was 
slightly  suggestive  of  men  treading  water. 
Their  heads  seemed  small  for  their  great  bodies 
and  with  their  big  eyes,  their  beard-like  mass  of 
thick  bristles  about  the  nose,  and  their  long 
ivory  tusks  they  had  a  distinctly  human  look 
despite  their  grotesque  ugliness.  They  lifted 
their  multitudinous  voices  in  gruff,  barking  roars 
like  so  many  bulldogs  affected  with  a  cold. 
There  must  have  been  10,000  of  them.  They 
paid  little  attention  to  the  ship.  Those  on  shore 
remained  as  motionless  as  boulders. 

"Want  to  collect  a  little  ivory?"  Captain 
Shorev  said  with  a  smile  to  Mr.  Winchester. 


194     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

"  No,  thank  you,  not  just  now,"  replied  the 
mate.  "  I  want  to  live  to  get  back  to 
'Frisco." 

An  ivory  hunter  among  those  tusked  thou- 
sands doubtless  would  have  fared  disastrously. 
Walrus  are  famous  fighters.  When  attacked, 
they  sometimes  upset  a  boat  with  their  tusks 
and  drown  the  hunters.  They  are  dangerous 
even  in  small  herds.  Moreover  they  are  difficult 
to  kill.  Their  thick  hides  will  turn  a  bullet 
that  does  not  hit  them  solidly.  Though  slow 
and  unwieldy  on  land  or  ice,  they  are  surpris- 
ingly agile  in  the  water  and  a  harpooned  walrus 
will  frequently  tow  a  boat  at  a  dizzy  clip. 

The  region  about  Cape  Prince  of  Wales  is  a 
favorite  feeding  ground  for  the  animals.  The 
coasts  swarm  with  clams,  mussels,  and  other 
shell-fish  upon  which  the  walrus  live.  Thirteen 
varieties  of  edible  clams,  it  is  said,  have  been  dis- 
covered by  scientists  about  Cape  Prince  of 
Wales.  The  walrus  dig  these  shell-fish  out  of 
the  sand  and  rocks  with  their  tusks,  crush  them 
with  their  teeth,  eject  the  shells,  and  swallow 
the  dainty  tidbits.     Their  tusks  serve  them  also 


INTO    THE   ARCTIC  195 

as  weapons  of  defense  and  as  hooks  by  which 
to  haul  themselves  upon  ice  floes. 

We  did  not  dare  take  chances  in  the  boats 
among  such  vast  numbers  of  these  formidable 
creatures  and  soon  left  the  great  herd  astern. 
A  little  higher  up  the  coast  we  ran  into  a  small 
herd  numbering  about  a  hundred,  and  Mr.  Win- 
chester, armed  with  his  repeating  rifle,  lowered 
his  boat  to  have  a  try  for  ivory. 

When  the  mate's  boat  dashed  among  the  ani- 
mals they  did  not  dive  or  run  away,  but  held 
their  ground,  standing  well  up  out  of  water  and 
coughing  out  defiance.  Long  John  darted  a 
harpoon  into  one  of  the  beasts  and  it  plunged 
below  and  went  scurrying  away.  One  might 
have  thought  the  boat  was  fast  to  a  young  whale 
from  the  way  the  line  sizzled  out  over  the  bow. 
The  walrus  dragged  the  boat  about  half  a  mile, 
and  when  the  animal  again  came  to  the  surface 
for  air  Mr.  Winchester  killed  it  with  a  bullet. 

But  the  blood  and  the  shooting  had  thrown 
the  remainder  of  the  herd  into  violent  excite- 
ment. Roaring  furiously,  the  great  beasts  con- 
verged from  all  sides  in  the  wake  of  the  chase. 


196     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

By  the  time  Long  John  had  cut  off  the  head  of 
the  dead  walrus  and  heaved  it  aboard  and  had 
recovered  his  harpoon,  the  animals  were  swarm- 
ing menacingly  about  the  boat.  Long  John, 
who  had  been  in  such  ticklish  situations  before, 
began  to  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  gunwales  with  his 
sheath  knife,  at  the  same  time  emitting  a  series 
of  blood-curdling  yells.  This  was  intended  to 
awe  the  boat's  besiegers  and  had  a  momentary 
effect.  The  brutes  stood  in  the  water  appar- 
ently puzzled,  but  still  roaring  savagely.  But 
they  were  not  long  to  be  held  off  by  mere  noise. 
Led  by  a  monster  bull,  they  rushed  at  the  boat  in 
a  concerted  attack.  The  sailors  belabored  them 
over  the  head  with  the  sweeps.  The  mate  pumped 
lead  into  them  from  his  rifle.    Still  they  came  on. 

When  Captain  Shorey,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  battle  from  the  quarter-deck,  saw  how 
serious  the  situation  was  becoming,  he  grew 
alarmed. 

"  Those  men  will  be  killed,"  he  shouted  to 
Mr.  Landers.  "  Call  the  watch  and  lower  those 
other  boats,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

In  a  jiffy  the  boats  were  lowered,  the  crews 


INTO   THE   ARCTIC  197 

piled  in,  masts  were  stepped,  and  we  shot  away 
to  the  rescue.  But  the  mate's  crew  solved  their 
own  problem  before  we  could  come  into  action. 
When  it  seemed  likely  the  walrus  would  swamp 
the  boat,  Long  John  harpooned  the  leader  of  the 
herd.  The  big  walrus  dived  and  made  off,  haul- 
ing the  boat  out  of  the  midst  of  the  furious 
brutes  to  safety.  The  other  animals  did  not  pur- 
sue. They  bobbed  about  the  scene  of  the  conflict 
for  some  time  and  finally  disappeared.  Long 
John  killed  the  big  bull  to  which  the  boat  was 
fast,  cut  off  its  head,  and  the  boat  went  back  to 
the  battleground  to  take  similar  toll  of  the  wal- 
rus that  had  died  under  the  mate's  rain  of  bul- 
lets. Eight  carcasses  were  found  afloat  and  as 
many  more  probably  had  sunk. 

Ten  heads  with  their  ivory  tusks  were  brought 
aboard  the  brig  as  trophies  of  the  hunt.  The 
tusks  of  the  bull  that  had  led  the  attack  meas- 
ured two  feet  six  inches.  The  animal,  according 
to  Mr.  Winchester,  must  have  been  ten  or  twelve 
feet  long.  The  mate  estimated  its  weight  at 
1,800  pounds — a  guess,  of  course,  but  perhaps 
a  close  one. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


BLUBBER   AND    SONG 


WE   were   cruising  in   open   water   soon 
afterward  with  two  whaling  ships  in 
sight,    the    Reindee?'    and    the    Helen 
Marr,  both  barkentines  and  carrying  five  boats 
each,    when    we    raised    a    school    of   bowheads 
straight    ahead    and    about    five    miles    distant. 
There  were  twenty-five  or  thirty  whales  and  a 
broad  patch  of  sea  was  covered  with  their  inces- 
sant fountains.    The  other  ships  saw  them  about 
the  same  time.    The  long-drawn,  musical  "  Blo- 
o-o-w!  "  from  their  mastheads  came  to  us  across 
the  water.      Aboard   the   brig,    the   watch    was 
called  and  all  hands  were  mustered  to  the  boats. 
Falls  were  thrown  off  the  hooks  and  we  stood 
by  to  lower  as  soon  as  the  captain  gave  the  word. 
There  was  equal  bustle  on  the  other  ships.  Trav- 
eling before  a  favoring  breeze  in  the  same  direc- 

198 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  199 

tion  as  the  whales,  the  three  vessels  waited  until 
they  could  work  closer.  Each  captain  in  the 
meanwhile  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  the  others. 
None  of  them  proposed  to  let  his  rivals  get  the 
start.  The  Reindeer  was  to  windward  of  us, 
the  If  el  en  Marr  on  our  lee. 

When  the  ships  had  reached  within  a  mile  of 
the  whales  Captain  Shorey  sent  our  boats  down. 
Instantly  the  other  skippers  did  the  same.  Soon 
thirteen  whale  boats  were  speeding  on  the  chase. 

Fine  sailing  weather  it  was,  with  a  fresh  breeze 
ruffling  the  surface  of  a  gently  heaving  sea. 
With  all  sails  set  and  keeping  well  apart,  the 
boats  heeled  over,  their  crews  sitting  lined  up 
along  the  weather  gunwales.  There  seemed  no 
chance  of  any  clash  or  misunderstanding.  There 
were  plenty  of  whales,  and  with  any  luck  there 
would  be  glory  enough  and  profit  enough  for  all. 

Like  a  line  of  skirmishers  deployed  against  an 
enemy,  the  boats  stole  silently  toward  the  whales. 
We  soon  saw  the  great  animals  were  busy  feed- 
ing. A  few  inches  below  the  surface  the  sea 
was  filled  with  "  whale  food,"  a  round,  diapha- 
nous, disk-like  jellyfish  about  the  size  of  a  silver 


200     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

dollar  and  perfectly  white.  When  he  arrived  in 
this  Arctic  Ocean  whale  pasture  the  water 
seemed  snowy  with  the  millions  of  jellyfish. 
With  open  jaws,  the  whales  swam  this  way  and 
that,  making  zigzag  swaths  a  hundred  yards  long 
through  the  gelatinous  masses,  their  great  heads 
and  backs  well  out  of  water,  their  fins  now  and 
then  flapping  ponderously.  When  they  had  en- 
tangled a  sufficient  quantity  of  the  jellyfish  in 
the  long  hair  hanging  from  the  inner  edges 
of  their  teeth  they  closed  their  mouths  with  re- 
verberating snaps  that  sent  the  water  splashing 
out  on  either  side. 

Before  the  whales  were  aware  of  danger,  the 
boats  rushed  in  among  them.  Each  boatheader 
singled  out  a  whale,  and  five  boats  were  quickly 
fast — two  from  the  Reindeer,  two  from  the 
Helen  Marr,  and  Mr.  Winchester's  boat.  Wild 
turmoil  and  confusion  instantly  ensued  among 
the  great  animals.  They  went  plunging  below 
in  alarm  and  the  boats  that  made  no  strike  at 
the  first  onslaught  had  no  chance  thereafter.  The 
whales  did  not  stop  to  investigate  the  causes  of 
the  sudden  interruption  of  their  banquet.     The 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  201 

sea  swallowed  them  up  and  we  did  not  see  them 
again.  A  little  later  we  caught  a  glimpse  of 
their  fountains  twinkling  against  the  sky  on  the 
far  horizon. 

Mr.  Winchester's  whale  was  wriggling  about 
among  the  jellyfish  with  jaws  widely  distended 
when  the  boat  slipped  silently  upon  it.  As  the 
prow  bumped  against  its  black  skin,  Long  John 
drove  a  harpoon  up  to  the  hitches  in  its  back. 
With  a  tonite  bomb  shattered  in  its  vitals,  the 
monster  sounded  in  a  smother  of  foam.  In  the 
dynamic  violence  with  which  it  got  under  way 
it  literally  stood  on  its  head.  Its  flukes,  easily 
twenty  feet  from  tip  to  tip,  shot  at  least  thirty 
feet  into  the  air.  They  swung  over  to  one  side, 
the  great  body  forming  a  high  arch,  and  struck 
the  sea  with  a  resounding  smack.  Then  they 
sailed  on  high  again  to  come  down  on  the  other 
side  with  another  broadside  smash.  Again  they 
rose  like  lightning  into  the  air  and  the  whale 
seemed  to  slip  down  perpendicularly  into  the 
ocean. 

It  was  evident  at  the  outset  that  the  animal 
was  badiv  wounded.     It  swam  only  a  short  dis- 


202     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

tance  below  the  surface  and  not  rapidly,  send- 
ing up  thousands  of  bubbles  to  mark  its  course. 
This  broad  highway  of  bubbles  curved  and 
turned,  but  Mr.  Winchester,  who  had  been  smart 
enough  not  to  lower  his  sail,  followed  it  as  a 
hound  follows  the  trail  of  a  deer.  The  boat 
sailed  almost  as  swiftly  as  the  whale  swam  and 
was  able  to  keep  almost  directly  above  it.  When 
the  whale  came  to  the  surface  the  mate  was  upon 
it  and  Long  John's  second  harpoon  stopped  it 
dead  in  its  track.  The  whale  went  through  no 
flurry,  but  died  instantly  and  rolled  over  on  its 
back. 

With  excitement  all  about,  there  was  nothing 
for  Mr.  Landers  or  Gabriel  to  do.  So  Ave  sat 
still  in  the  boats  and  watched  the  swift  incidents 
of  the  far-flung  battle. 

One  of  the  whales  struck  by  a  boat  from  the 
Reindeer  breached  almost  completely  out  of 
water  as  soon  as  it  felt  the  sting  of  the  harpoon. 
It  floundered  down  like  a  falling  tower,  roiled 
about  for  a  moment  before  sinking  to  a  swim- 
ming depth,  and  made  off  at  mad  speed.  It 
rose  within  twenty  feet  of  where  our  boat  lay 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  203 

at  a  standstill  and  we  could  see  its  wild  eye,  as 
big  as  a  saucer,  as  the  injured  creature  blew  up 
a  fountain  whose  bloody  spray  fell  all  over  us. 
The  boat  it  was  dragging  soon  went  flashing  past 
us,  the  crew  sitting  crouched  down  and  silent. 

"  Swing  to  him,  fellers,"  shouted  Kaiuli, 
standing  up  and  waving  his  hat  about  his  head. 

But  the  others  paid  no  attention  to  our  South 
Sea  island  savage.  They  were  intent  just  then 
on  tragedy.  Their  boat  struck  the  whale  at  its 
next  rise.  The  animal  went  into  a  violent  flurry. 
It  beat  the  sea  into  a  lather  with  fins  and  flukes 
and  darted  around  on  its  side  in  a  semi-circle, 
clashing  its  great  jaws,  until  it  finally  collapsed 
and  lay  limp  and  lifeless. 

The  whale  struck  by  the  other  boat  from  the 
Reindeer  ran  out  a  tub  of  line,  but  a  second  boat 
had  come  up  in  time  to  bend  on  its  own  line 
and  took  the  animal  in  tow.  Before  the  whale 
had  run  out  this  new  tub,  a  third  boat  harpooned 
it.  With  two  boats  fast  to  it,  it  continued  its 
flight  to  windward  and  was  at  least  two  miles 
from  us  when  its  pursuers  at  last  overtook  and 
killed  it. 


204     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

Two  boats  from  the  Helen  Marr  struck 
whales  while  the  monsters  were  feeding  within 
an  oar's  length  of  each  other.  One  whale  started 
off  at  right  angles  to  the  direction  taken  by  the 
other.  It  looked  for  a  time  as  if  the  two  lines 
would  become  entangled  and  the  boats  would 
crash  together.  But  the  whale  that  cut  across 
the  other's  course  swam  above  the  latter's  line 
and  dragged  its  boat  so  swiftly  after  it  that  a 
collision  was  averted  by  a  few  feet. 

One  of  the  whales  was  bombed  and  killed  after 
a  short  flight.  The  other  acted  in  a  way  that 
whales  hardly  ever  act.  It  ran  hard  to  wind- 
ward at  first,  as  whales  usually  do  when  struck. 
Then  it  suddenly  turned  and  ran  in  an  exactly 
opposite  direction.  This  unexpected  change  in 
its  course  almost  upset  the  boat,  which  was 
jerked  violently  over  on  its  beam-ends  and  spun 
round  like  a  top,  while  the  crew  held  on  for  dear 
life  and  barely  escaped  being  pitched  into  the 
sea.  Once  righted  and  on  its  way  again,  the 
boat  rapidly  hauled  up  on  the  whale,  whose  fast- 
going  vitality  showed  in  its  diminished  speed. 
After  a  flight  that  had  covered  at  least  a  mile, 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  205 

the  whale  was  finally  killed  close  to  the  spot  at 
which  it  had  first  been  struck. 

When  the  sharp,  fast  work  of  the  boats  ended, 
five  mighty  carcasses  lay  stretched  upon  the  sea. 
The  great  whale  drive,  which  had  lasted  less 
than  an  hour,  had  bagged  game  worth  something 
like  $60,000. 

The  three  ships  soon  sailed  to  close  quarters 
and  the  boats  had  a  comparatively  easy  time  get- 
ting the  whales  alongside.  That  night  the  try- 
works  were  started  and  big  cressets  whose  flames 
were  fed  by  "  scrap  "  flared  up  on  all  the  ships, 
lighting  them  in  ghostly-wise  from  the  deck  to 
the  topmost  sail. 

At  the  cutting  in  of  this  whale  I  had  my  first 
experience  at  the  windlass.  The  heaviest  labor 
falls  to  the  sailors  who  man  the  windlass  and 
hoist  in  the  great  blanket  pieces  of  blubber  and 
the  "  old  head."  Gabriel,  the  happiest-spirited 
old  soul  aboard,  bossed  the  job,  as  he  always  did, 
and  cheered  the  sailors  and  made  the  hard  work 
seem  like  play  by  his  constant  chanteys — those 
catchy,  tuneful,  working  songs  of  the  sea.  All 
the  old  sailors  on  the  brig  knew  these  songs  by 


206     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

heart  and  often  sang  them  on  the  topsail  halyard 
or  while  reefing  on  the  topsail  yard.  The  green 
hands  soon  picked  up  the  words  and  airs  of  the 
choruses  and  joined  in.  The  day  laborer  on  land 
has  no  idea  how  work  at  sea  is  lightened  by  these 
songs. 

Gabriel  knew  no  end  of  them,  and  in  a  round, 
musical  voice  led  the  men  at  the  windlass  in  such 
rollicking  old-time  sea  airs  as  "  Whiskey  for  the 
Johnnies,"  "  Blow  the  Man  Down,"  "  Blow, 
Boys,  Blow,"  and  "  Rolling  Rio."  He  would 
sing  a  verse  and  the  sailors  would  stand  with 
their  hands  on  the  windlass  bars  until  he  had 
concluded.  Then  they  would  heave  away  with 
a  will  and  make  the  pawls  clank  and  clatter  as 
they  roared  out  the  chorus.  The  old  negro's 
favorite  was  "  Whiskey  for  the  Johnnies."  It 
had  a  fine  rousing  chorus  and  we  liked  to  sing  it 
not  only  for  its  stirring  melody  but  because  we 
always  harbored  a  hope — which,  I  may  add,  was 
never  realized — -that  the  captain  would  be 
touched  by  the  words  and  send  forward  a  drop 
of  liquor  with  which  to  wet  our  whistles.  Ga- 
briel would  begin  in  this  way: 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  207 

"  O   whiskey   is   the   life   of   man." 

And  the  sailors  as  they  heaved  would  chorus: 

"  O  whiskey,  O  Johnny. 

0  whiskey   is  the  life  of  man, 
Whiskey   for  the  Johnnies." 

Then  Gabriel  would  sing: 

"  Whiskey    killed    my    poor    old    dad, 
Whiskey  drove  my  mother  mad, 
Whiskey  caused  me  much  ahuse, 
Whiskey  put  me  in  the  calaboose, 
Whiskey  fills  a  man  with  care, 
Whiskey  makes  a  man  a  bear." 

And  the  men  would  come  through  with  the 
refrain: 

"  Whiskey,  Johnny. 

1  drink  whiskey  when  I  can. 
O  whiskey  for  the  Johnnies." 

At  the  end  of  our  song  which  ran  through 
verses  enough  to  bring  a  blanket  piece  of  blub- 
ber swinging  inboard,  we  would  look  wistfully 
toward  the  quarter-deck  and  wonder  if  the  "  old 
man  "  would  take  our  musical  hint. 

Or  Gabriel  would  start  up  "  Rolling  Kio  ": 

"  I'll  sing  you  a  song  of  the  fish  of  the  sea." 

The  men  would  thunder: 

"  Rolling  Rio." 

Gabriel  would  continue: 

"  As   I   was   going  down    Broadway   Street 


208     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

A  pretty  young  girl  I  chanced  to  meet." 

And  the  sailors  would  sing: 

"  To  my  rolling  Rio  Grande. 
Hurrah,  you  Rio,  rolling  Rio. 
So  fare  you  well,  my  pretty  young  girl, 
I'm  bound   for  the   Rio  Grande." 

"  Blow,  Boys,  Blow  "  was  another  with  which 
we  made  the  Arctic  ring.  The  other  ships  could 
not  have  failed  to  hear  its  swinging  rhythm  as  it 
burst  from  our  lusty  lungs  in  this  fashion: 

Gabriel : 

"  A  Yankee  ship  came  down  the  river." 

The  sailors: 

"  Blow,  boys,  blow." 
Gabriel : 

"And  who  do  you  think  was  skipper  of  her? 
Dandy  Jim  of  old  Carolina." 

Sailors: 

"  Blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow." 
Gabriel : 

"And  who  do  you  think  was  second  greaser? 
Why,  Pompey  Squash,  that  big  buck  nigger." 

Sailors: 

"  Blow,  boys,  blow." 

Gabriel : 

'And  what  do  you  think  they  had  for  dinner? 
Monkey  lights  and  donkey's  liver." 


BLUBBER    AND    SONG  209 

Sailors: 

"  Blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow." 
Gabriel : 

"  And  what  do  you  think  they  had  for  supper? 
Old  hard  tack  and  Yankee  leather. 
Then  blow,  my  boys,  for  better  weather. 
Blow,  my  boys,  I  love  to  hear  you." 

Sailors: 

"  Blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow." 

So  with  a  heave  and  a  song  we  soon  had  our 
whale  stowed,  bone  and  blubber,  below  hatches. 
The  Reindeer  and  the  Helen  Marr  had  drifted 
far  away  from  us  by  the  time  our  work  was 
finished,  but  they  were  still  in  sight  and  their  try- 
works  smoking.  Our  whale  yielded  1,800  pounds 
of  bone. 


CHAPTER   XIX 


A   NARROW    PINCH 


THE  whaling  fleet  divided  soon  after  enter- 
ing the  Arctic  Ocean.  Some  of  the  ships 
went  straight  on  north  to  the  whaling 
grounds  about  Point  Barrow  and  Herschel  Is- 
land. The  others  bore  to  the  westward  for  the 
whaling  along  the  ice  north  of  eastern  Siberia. 
We  stood  to  the  westward.  In  a  few  days  we 
had  raised  the  white  coasts  of  a  continent  of  ice 
that  shut  in  all  the  north  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see  and  extended  to  the  Pole  and  far  beyond. 
With  the  winds  in  the  autumn  always  blowing 
from  the  northwest,  the  sea  was  perfectly  calm 
in  the  lee  of  this  indestructible  polar  cap.  I 
have  been  out  in  the  whale  boats  when  they 
were  heeled  over  on  their  beam-ends  under 
double-reefed  sails  before  a  gale  of  wind  upon 
a  sea  as  smooth  as  the  waters  of  a  duck  pond. 


A    NARROW    PINCH  211 

It  was  now  no  longer  bright  twilight  at  mid- 
night. The  sun  already  well  on  its  journey  to 
the  equator,  sank  earlier  and  deeper  below  the 
horizon.  Several  hours  of  darkness  began  to 
intervene  between  its  setting  and  its  rising.  By 
September  we  had  a  regular  succession  of  days 
and  nights. 

With  the  return  of  night  we  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  electric  phenomenon  of  the  Far  Xorth, 
the  aurora  borealis.  Every  night  during  our 
stay  in  the  Arctic  the  skies  were  made  brilliant 
with  these  shooting  lights.  I  had  expected  to 
see  waving  curtains  of  rainbow  colors,  but  I  saw 
no  colors  at  any  time.  The  auroras  of  those 
skies  were  of  pure  white  light.  A  great  arch 
would  suddenly  shoot  across  the  zenith  from 
horizon  to  horizon.  It  was  nebulously  bright, 
like  a  shining  milky  way  or  a  path  of  snow  upon 
which  moonlight  sparkles.  You  could  hear  it 
rustle  and  crackle  distinctly,  with  a  sound  like 
that  of  heavy  silk  violently  shaken.  It  shed  a 
cold  white  radiance  over  the  sea  like  the  light  of 
arc  lamps,  much  brighter  than  the  strongest 
moonlight. 


212     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

It  was  not  quite  bright  enough  to  read  by — 
but  almost — and  it  threw  sharp,  black  shadows 
on  the  deck.  Gradually  the  arch  would  fade,  to 
be  succeeded  by  others  that  spanned  the  heavens 
from  other  angles.  Often  several  arches  and 
segments  were  in  the  sky  at  the  same  time. 
Sometimes,  though  rarely,  the  aurora  assumed 
the  form  of  a  curtain  hanging  vertically  along 
the  horizon  and  shimmered  as  though  agitated 
by  a  strong  wind. 

I  was  pleasantly  surprised  by  the  tempera- 
tures encountered  in  the  Arctic.  We  were  in 
the  polar  ocean  until  early  in  October,  but  the 
lowest  temperature  recorded  by  the  brig's  ther- 
mometer was  10  degrees  below  zero.  Such  a 
temperature  seems  colder  on  sea  than  on  land. 
Greater  dampness  has  something  to  do  with  it, 
but  imagination  probably  plays  its  part.  There 
is  something  in  the  very  look  of  a  winter  sea, 
yeasty  under  the  north  wind  and  filled  with 
snowy  floes  and  icebergs,  that  seems  to  congeal 
the  marrow  in  one's  bones.  In  the  cold  snaps, 
when  a  big  wave  curled  over  the  bows,  I  have 
seen  it  break  and  strike  upon  the  deck  in  the 


A    NARROW    PINCH  213 

form  of  hundreds  of  ice  pellets.  Almost  every 
day  when  it  was  rough,  the  old  Arctic  played 
marbles  with  us. 

What  with  the  mists,  the  cold  rains,  the  sleets 
and  snows  and  flying  spray,  the  brig  was  soon 
a  mass  of  ice.  The  sides  became  encased  in  a 
white  armor  of  ice  which  at  the  bows  was  sev- 
eral feet  thick.  We  frequently  had  to  knock  it 
off.  The  decks  were  sheeted  with  ice,  the  masts 
and  spars  were  glazed  with  it,  the  shrouds, 
stays,  and  every  rope  were  coated  with  ice,  and 
the  yard-arms  and  foot-ropes  were  hung  with  ice 
stalactites.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  sights  I 
ever  saw  was  the  whaling  fleet  when  we  fell  in 
with  it  one  cold,  gray  morning.  The  frost  had 
laid  its  white  witchery  upon  the  other  ships  as 
it  had  upon  the  brig,  and  they  glided  through 
the  black  seas,  pallid,  shimmering,  and  phantom- 
like in  their  ice  armor — an  armada  of  ghostly 
Flying  Dutchmen. 

The  brig  was  constantly  wearing  and  tacking 
on  the  whaling  grounds  and  there  was  consider- 
able work  to  be  done  aloft.  By  the  captain's 
orders,  we  did  such  work  with  our  mittens  off. 


214     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

Hauling  bare-handed  on  ropes  of  solid  ice  was 
painful  labor,  and  "  Belay  all!  "  often  came  like 
a  benediction  to  souls  in  torment.  Then  we  had 
much  ado  whipping  our  hands  against  our  sides 
to  restore  the  circulation.  After  Big  Foot  Louis 
had  frozen  a  finger,  the  captain  permitted  us  to 
keep  our  mittens  on. 

Work  aloft  under  such  conditions  was  dan- 
gerous. Our  walrus-hide  boots  were  heelless 
and  extremely  slippery  and  our  footing  on  the 
foot-ropes  was  precarious.  We  had  to  depend 
as  much  upon  our  hands  as  upon  our  feet  to 
keep  from  falling  when  strung  out  for  reefing 
along  the  topsail  yard.  Many  were  the  slips 
and  hair-breadth  escapes.  It  seems  now,  on 
looking  back  on  it,  almost  miraculous  that  some 
of  us  green  hands  did  not  tumble  to  our  death. 

We  saw  whales  frequently.  Sometimes  the 
boats  were  lowered  half  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
Often  we  spent  whole  days  in  the  boats,  and 
even  in  our  skin  clothes  it  was  freezing  business 
sitting  still  on  the  gunwale  of  a  beam-ended  boat 
driving  along  at  thrilling  speed  in  the  teeth  of 
an  Arctic  gale.     Our  skipper  was  a  good  gam- 


A    NAB  ROW    PINCH  215 

bier,  and  he  lowered  whenever  there  was  an  off 
chance  to  bag  a  leviathan. 

As  we  worked  to  the  westward,  twin  peaks 
rose  out  of  the  sea  ahead  of  us.  Covered  with 
snow  and  ice,  they  stood  out  against  the  sky  as 
white  as  marble.  It  was  our  first  glimpse  of 
Herald  Island,  in  latitude  71  degrees  north.  We 
sailed  north  of  the  island  and  close  to  it.  It 
looked  forbiddingly  desolate.  Along  the  shores 
there  was  a  rampart  of  black  rock.  Nowhere 
else  was  a  glimpse  of  earth  or  herbage  of  any 
sort.  The  island  was  a  gleaming  white  mass  of 
snow  and  ice  from  the  dark  sea  to  the  tips  of  the 
twin  mountains.  It  was  discovered  in  1849  by 
Captain  Kellett  of  the  English  ship  Herald  and 
named  after  his  vessel.  Captain  De  Long, 
leader  of  the  ill-fated  Jcancttc  expedition,  was 
frozen  in  close  to  the  island  in  the  winter  of 
1880.  He  found  polar  bear  plentiful  and 
trapped  and  shot  a  number. 

Here  at  Herald  Island  we  fell  in  with  eight- 
een ships  of  the  whaling  fleet — all  that  had 
cruised  to  the  westward — and  it  was  only  by 
good  luck  that  some  of  them  did  not  leave  their 


216     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

hulks  on  those  desolate  shores.  The  polar  pack 
rested  solidly  against  the  island's  western  end 
and  curved  in  a  great  half-moon  to  the  north 
and  east.  The  pocket  thus  formed  between  the 
island  and  the  ice  looked  good  for  whales  and 
the  ships  hunted  it  out  carefully. 

Far  to  the  eastward,  a  long  arm  of  ice  reached 
out  from  the  pack  and  grasped  the  island's  east- 
ern end.  This  arm  was  perhaps  a  mile  wide. 
It  barred  our  passage  back  to  the  open  sea.  The 
ships  had  been  caught  in  a  trap.  They  were 
bottled  up  in  a  hole  of  water  perhaps  a  hundred 
square  miles  in  extent.  Busy  on  the  lookout  for 
whales,  the  captains  of  the  fleet  did  not  realize 
the  situation  for  several  hours.  When  they  dis- 
covered their  predicament,  they  hurried  to  the 
crow's-nests  with  glasses  to  try  to  spy  out  an 
avenue  of  escape.  Sail  was  cracked  on.  The 
ships  began  to  fly  about  like  panic-stricken  living 
creatures. 

The  great  polar  pack  was  pressing  rapidly 
toward  the  island.  Unless  the  ships  escaped,  it 
seemed  likely  they  would  be  securely  hemmed  in 
before   night.      In   this   event,   if  they   escaped 


A   NARROW   PINCH  217 

wreck  by  ice  pressure  they  faced  the  prospect  of 
lying  still  in  an  ice  bed  until  the  pack  broke  up 
in  the  spring. 

All  day  long  the  frightened  ships  scurried  up 
and  down  the  ice  barrier  without  finding  an 
opening.  They  ran  to  the  westward.  There 
was  no  escape  there.  They  flew  back  to  the 
east.  An  ice  wall  confronted  them.  The  case 
seemed  hopeless.  The  panic  of  the  captains  be- 
came more  and  more  evident.  If  a  ship  hurried 
off  in  any  direction,  the  other  ships  flocked  after 
her  like  so  many  scared  sheep.  Morning  and 
afternoon  passed  in  this  wild  search  for  an  out- 
let.    Night  was  coming  on. 

A  bark  squared  her  yards  and  shot  away  to 
the  southeast.  It  was  the  Sea  Breeze.  When 
the  others  expected  her  to  tack,  she  did  no  such 
thing,  but  kept  going  straight  ahead.  On  she 
went  alone,  far  from  the  fleet.  It  was  exciting 
to  watch  that  single  ship  flying  eastward.  What 
could  it  mean?  Had  she  found  an  opening? 
The  other  ships  turned  their  prows  after  her, 
one  by  one.  A  long  line  of  vessels  soon  was 
careering  in  the  wake  of  the  Sea  Breeze.     She 


218     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

had  dwindled  to  a  little  ship  in  the  far  distance 
when  at  last  we  saw  her  break  out  the  American 
colors  at  her  mizzen  peak.  Every  man  aboard 
the  brig  gave  a  cheer.  Cheers  from  the  other 
ships  came  across  the  water.  It  meant  that  the 
Sea  Breeze  was  clear. 

She  had  found  a  lead  that  suddenly  had 
opened  through  the  eastern  ice  strip,  as  leads 
will  open  in  drifting  floes.  The  lead  was  not 
entirely  clear.  A  narrow  strip  of  ice  lay  across 
it.  The  Sea  Breeze  butted  through  this  strip 
and  sailed  on  to  freedom.  The  other  vessels  fol- 
lowed. Our  brig  was  the  tenth  ship  to  pass 
through.  As  we  negotiated  the  narrow  passage, 
the  ice  was  so  close  on  both  sides  we  could  have 
leaped  upon  it  from  the  bulwarks.  It  was  with 
a  joyous  sense  of  escape  that  we  cleared  the  pack 
and  swung  once  more  on  the  open  sea.  Soon 
after  the  last  ship  of  the  fleet  had  bumped  her 
way  to  safety  the  ice  closed  solidly  behind. 


CHAPTER    XX 

A    RACE    AND    A    RACE    HORSE 

EARLY  one  morning  the  old  familiar  cry 
rang  from  the  crow's-nest — "  Blo-o-o-w." 
A  lone  whale,  in  plain  view  from  the  deck, 
was  sporting  lazily  on  the  surface  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  off  our  starboard  bow.  The  three 
boats  were  hurriedly  lowered  and  the  crews 
scrambled  in.  We  took  to  the  oars,  for  not  a 
breath  of  air  was  stirring  and  the  sea  was  as 
smooth  as  polished  silver.  Away  went  the  boats 
together,  as  if  from  a  starting  line  at  the  crack 
of  a  pistol,  with  the  whale  as  the  goal  and  prize 
of  the  race. 

Mr.  Winchester  had  often  boasted  of  the  su- 
periority of  his  crew.  Mr.  Landers  had  not 
seemed  interested  in  the  question,  but  Gabriel 
resented  the  assumption.  "  Just  wait."  he  used 
to  say  to  us  confidentially.      '  We'll   show  him 

which  is  de  bes'  crew.     Our  time'll  come."     The 

219 


220     A    YEAR   WITH   A    WHALER 

men  of  the  mate's  boat  had  shared  their  officer's 
vainglorious  opinion.  They  had  long  swaggered 
among  us  with  a  self-complacent  assurance  that 
made  us  smart.  Our  chance  had  at  last  come 
to  prove  their  pride  a  mockery  under  the  skip- 
per's eyes.  If  ever  men  wanted,  from  the  bot- 
tom of  their  hearts,  to  win,  we  did.  We  not  only 
had  our  name  as  skillful  oarsmen  to  vindicate, 
but  a  grudge  to  wipe  out. 

So  evenly  matched  were  the  crews  that  the 
boats  rushed  along  side  by  side  for  at  least  half 
a  mile,  Mr.  Winchester  insouciant  and  super- 
ciliously smiling,  Mr.  Landers  indifferent,  Ga- 
briel all  eagerness  and  excitement.  Perhaps 
Mr.  .Landers  knew  his  crew  was  outclassed.  If 
he  did  not,  he  was  not  long  in  finding  it  out, 
for  his  boat  began  to  drop  steadily  behind  and 
was  soon  hopelessly  out  of  the  contest.  But  the 
other  two  crews,  stroke  for  stroke,  were  proving 
foemen  worthy  of  each  other's  prowess. 

"  Oho,  Gabriel,"  Mr.  Winchester  laughed 
contemptuously,  "  you  think  your  boat  can  out- 
pull  us,  eh?  Bet  you  ten  pounds  of  tobacco 
we  beat  you  to  the  whale." 


RACE   AND   RACE   HORSE      221 

"  I  take  you,"  cried  Gabriel  excitedly.  "  Dat's 
a  bet." 

If  Gabriel  accepted  the  challenge,  so  did  we, 
and  right  heartily  at  that.  We  threw  ourselves, 
heart  and  soul,  into  the  struggle.  The  men  in 
the  mate's  boat,  holding  us  cheaply,  believed  they 
could  draw  away  whenever  they  chose  and  go 
on  to  win,  hands  down.  The  mate  kept  looking 
over  at  us,  a  supercilious  smile  still  curling  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Come  on  now,  my  boys,"  he  cried.  "  All  to- 
gether. Shake  her  up  a  bit.  Give  those  fellows 
a  taste  of  your  mettle." 

We  heard  his  words  as  distinctly  as  his  own 
crew  heard  them  —  he  was  only  a  few  boat 
lengths  away.  They  inspired  us  to  greater 
exertion  than  they  inspired  his  own  men.  They 
spurted.  So  did  we.  Still  the  two  boats  raced 
neck  and  neck.  We  were  not  to  be  shaken  off. 
The  mate  looked  disconcerted.  His  men  had 
done  their  level  best  to  take  the  lead  and  they 
had  failed.  That  spurt  marked  the  crisis  of  the 
race. 

The  mate's  smile  faded  out.     His  face  grew 


222     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

anxious.  Then  it  hardened  into  an  expression 
of  grim  determination.  He  had  sat  motionless 
at  the  beginning.  Now  when  he  saw  his  vaunted 
superiority  slipping  through  his  fingers  he  began 
to  "  jockey  " — throwing  his  body  forward  in  vio- 
lent lunges  at  every  stroke  of  the  sweeps,  push- 
ing with  all  his  might  on  the  stroke  oar,  and 
booming  out,  "Pull,  my  boys;  pull  away,  my 
boys." 

But  old  Gabriel  was  "jockeying,"  too,  and 
encouraging  us  in  the  same  fashion. 

"  We  show  dat  mate,"  he  kept  repeating. 
"  We  show  him.  Steady  together,  my  lads. 
Pull   away!" 

And  we  pulled  as  if  our  lives  depended  on  it, 
bending  to  the  oars  with  every  ounce  of  our 
strength,  making  the  long  sweeps  bend  in  the 
water.  We  began  to  forge  ahead,  very  slowly, 
inch  by  inch.  We  saw  it — it  cheered  us  to 
stronger  effort.  Our  rivals  saw  it — it  discour- 
aged them.  Under  the  heart-breaking  strain 
they  began  to  tire.  They  slipped  back  little  by 
little.  They  spurted  again.  It  was  no  use.  We 
increased  our  advantage.     Open  daylight  began 


RACE   AND   RACE   HORSE      223 

to  broaden  between  the  stern  of  our  boat  and  the 
bow  of  theirs.  They  were  beaten  in  a  fair  trial 
of  strength,  oarsmanship,  and  endurance. 

"  Ha,  my  boys,"  chuckled  Gabriel.  "  We  win. 
Good-by  to  dat  mate.  Xow  we  catch  dat  whale." 

We  shot  along  at  undiminished  speed,  pulling 
exultantly.  What  the  whale  was  doing  or  how 
close  we  were  to  it,  we  at  the  oars  could  not 
see. 

"  Stand  by,  Louis,"  said  Gabriel  presently. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  responded  Louis. 

A  few  more  strokes  and  a  great  black  bulk 
loomed  close  alongside. 

"  Give  it  to  him,  Louis,"  cried  Gabriel. 

And  as  the  boat  glanced  against  that  island 
of  living  ebony,  Louis's  harpoon  sank  dee])  into 
the  soft,  buttery  mass.  We  heard  the  tiny  con- 
cussion of  the  cap  of  the  tonite  gun,  and  a  frac- 
tion of  a  second  later  the  bomb  exploded  with 
a  muffled  roar  in  the  whale's  vitals. 

"  Stern,  stern!"  shouted  Gabriel.  "  Stern  for 
your  lives' 

We  backed  water  as  hard  as  we  could.  The 
great  back  went  flashing  down,  the  mighty  tail 


224     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

rose  up  directly  over  us,  shutting  out  the  sky. 
It  curled  over  away  from  us  and  smote  the  sea 
with  deafening  thunder.  As  quick  as  lightning 
it  rose  into  the  air  again,  curled  high  above  us 
with  tragic  menace,  and  came  crashing  down, 
this  time  toward  us.  But  we  had  backed  just  out 
of  harm's  way.  Death  and  that  terrible  tail 
missed  us  by  about  three  feet. 

The  mate's  boat  came  rushing  up.  It  was  too 
late.     The  whale — our  whale — had  sounded. 

"  Your  boat  can  beat  us,  eh?  "  Gabriel  called 
tauntingly  to  Mr.  Winchester.  "  Not  much.  I 
know  we  break  blackskin  first.  I  know  we  win 
dat  race." 

Our  line  began  to  dance  and  sing,  leaping  up 
from  its  neatly  laid  coils  in  the  tub  in  dizzy 
spirals  and  humming  out  over  the  bow. 

"  Ha,  boys,"  sang  out  Kaiuli,  our  Kanaka 
bow  oarsman.  "  Xow  for  fine  ride  behind  Arc- 
tic race  horse — eh?  " 

With  a  whale  harnessed  to  our  boat  and  a  sea 
as  smooth  as  any  turnpike  for  our  highway,  we 
settled  ourselves  for  the  ride.  The  friction  of 
the  line  set  the  boat  going.    It  gathered  momen- 


RACE   AND    RACE   HORSE      225 

turn.  In  a  little  while  we  were  tearing  along 
through  that  sea  of  oil,  our  bow  deep  in  the 
smother  as  the  whale  pulled  down  upon  it,  and 
flashing  walls  of  white  spray  flaring  out  on 
either   side. 

The  other  boats  pulled  for  the  point  at  which 
it  seemed  most  probable  the  whale  would  come 
up.  When  it  rose  to  the  surface,  the  mate's  boat 
was  nearest. 

"  Lay  me  on  four  seas  off  and  I'll  get  him," 
we  heard  Long  John  shout  to  Mr.  Winchester. 
The  mate  did  just  that.  The  whale  was  up  but 
a  moment  and  Long  John  tried  for  it,  but  it  was 
too  long  a  dart,  and  his  harpoon  fell  into  the  sea. 
Before  he  had  recovered  his  iron  we  had  shot 
past.  When  the  whale  rose  again,  we  bumped 
out  of  water  on  its  body.  A  second  harpoon 
drove  home  in  its  back,  a  second  bomb  exploded 
in  its  insides.  A  great  shudder  seized  the  mon- 
ster. The  water  foamed  white  with  its  throes. 
Then  everything  grew  still.  Slowly  the  great 
body  rolled  over,  belly  up. 

Big  Foot  Louis  danced  up  and  down  in  the 
bow,  raising  his  knees  high  in  a  sort  of  joyful 


226     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

cake-walk.  Gabriel,  equally  excited,  waved  his 
hat. 

"  By  golly,"  he  shouted,  "  dat  mate  don't 
strike  him.  Dat  feesh  is  all  ours.  It  takes  old 
Gabriel  fer  kill  de  whale,  by  golly." 

When  we  got  back  to  the  brig  we  looked  like 
snow-powdered  Santa  Clauses.  The  spray 
kicked  up  in  our  wild  ride  behind  the  Arctic 
Ocean  race  horse  had  wet  us  from  head  to  foot 
and,  freezing  on  our  fur  clothes,  had  frosted 
us  all  over  with  fine  white  ice.  Mr.  Winchester 
was  a  good  sportsman  and  paid  his  bet  promptly. 
Out  of  his  winnings  Gabriel  gave  each  man  of  his 
boat's  crew  a  plug  of  tobacco. 

After  the  whale  had  been  brought  alongside 
the  ship  and  the  blubber  had  been  peeled  off  its 
body,  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Big  Foot  Louis  to  cut 
in  the  "  old  head."  It  was  his  first  opportunity 
to  show  his  experience  in  such  work  and  he  was 
as  elated  as  a  boy.  Pie  threw  off  his  coat  with 
a  theatrical  flourish,  hitched  up  his  trousers, 
seized  an  axe,  and  with  an  air  of  bravado  climbed 
down  on  the  stripped  carcass.  A  little  sea  had 
begun  to  run  and  the  whale  was  bending  sinu- 


RACE   AND    RACE    HORSE      227 

ously  throughout  its  length  and  rolling  slightly 
from  side  to  side. 

Louis  chopped  two  little  ledges  in  the  whale's 
flesh  with  the  deftness  of  an  old  hand,  and  plant- 
ing his  feet  in  these,  began  raining  blows  with 
his  axe  on  the  neck.  He  was  getting  on  fa- 
mously, and  the  crew,  hanging  over  the  bul- 
warks, was  watching  with  admiring  eyes.  Sud- 
denly the  whale  gave  an  unexpectedly  violent 
roll — our  Arctic  Ocean  race  horse  was  proving 
a  bronco  even  in  death — and  Louis's  big  foot 
slipped  off  into  the  water.  He  lost  his  balance, 
pitched  forward,  and  sprawled  face  downward 
on  the  whale,  his  axe  sailing  away  and  plunking 
into  the  sea.  He  clutched  frantically  at  the 
whale,  but  every  grip  slipped  loose  and,  inch  by 
inch,  with  eyeballs  popping  out  of  his  head,  he 
slid  off  into  the  sea  and  with  a  yell  went  under. 

Everybody  laughed.  The  captain  held  his 
sides  and  the  officers  on  the  cutting  stage  almost 
fell  off  in  the  violence  of  their  mirth.  Louis 
came  up  spluttering  and  splashing.  He  was  an 
expert  swimmer,  as  expert  as  the  Kanakas 
among  whom   he  had   lived   for  years,   and   he 


228     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

needed  all  his  skill  to  keep  afloat  in  his  heavy 
boots  and  skin  clothes.  As  soon  as  the  mate 
could  control  his  merriment,  he  stuck  the  long 
handle  of  his  spade  down  and  Louis  grasped  it 
and  was  pulled  back  on  the  whale's  body.  He 
sat  there,  dripping  and  shivering  and  with  chat- 
tering teeth,  rolling  his  white  eyes  up  at  the 
laughing  crew  along  the  rail  with  a  tragic  "  Et 
tu,  Brute "  expression.  He  couldn't  see  the 
j  oke. 

"  Lemme  aboard,"  he  whimpered. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,"  roared  the  captain, 
"  and  cut  in  that  head." 

Louis  lived  in  mortal  fear  of  the  skipper,  and 
the  way  he  straightened  up  in  his  slippery  seat 
and  said  "Aye,  aye,  sir!"  made  the  crew  burst 
out  laughing  again.  Another  axe  was  passed 
down  to  him.  He  floundered  to  his  feet,  and 
though  he  found  it  harder  than  ever  in  his  wet 
boots  to  keep  his  footing,  and  slipped  more  than 
once  and  almost  fell  off  again,  he  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  cutting  off  the  head.  He  had  regained 
his  air  of  bravado  by  the  time  he  had  scrambled 
back  on  deck. 


RACE    AND    RACE    HORSE      229 

"  Pretty  close  shave,  Louis,"  ventured  a  sailor. 

"  Humph,"  returned  Louis,  "  dat's  nothin' — 
nothin'  at  all."  And  with  quite  lordly  dignity, 
despite  the  dripping  brine,  he  stalked  off  to  the 
cabin  to  change  his  clothes. 


CHAPTER   XXI 


BEARS    FOE   A    CHANGE 


SOON  after  taking  our  third  whale,  we  saw 
our  first  polar  bears — two  of  them  on  a 
narrow  floe  of  ice.  When  the  brig  was 
within  fifty  yards  of  them  the  mate  got  out  his 
rifle  and  began  blazing  away.  His  first  shot 
struck  one  of  the  bears  in  the  hind  leg.  The 
animal  wheeled  and  snapped  at  the  wound. 
The  second  shot  stretched  it  out  dead.  The 
second  bear  was  hit  somewhere  in  the  body  and, 
plunging  into  the  sea,  it  struck  out  on  a  three- 
mile  swim  for  the  main  ice  pack.  It  swam  with 
head  and  shoulders  out,  cleaving  the  water  like 
a  high-power  launch  and  leaving  a  creaming 
wake  behind.  Moving  so  swiftly  across  the 
brig's  course,  it  made  a  difficult  target. 

"  I'm  going  down  after  that  fellow,"  said  Mr. 

Winchester. 

230 


BEARS   FOR   A    CHANGE       231 

He  called  a  boat's  crew  and  lowered,  taking 
his  place  in  the  bow  with  his  rifle,  while  Long 
John  sat  at  the  tiller.  He  had  got  only  a  short 
distance  from  the  ship  when  Captain  Shorey 
ordered  Gabriel  after  him. 

"  Killing  that  bear  may  be  a  bigger  job  than 
he  thinks,"  he  said.  "  Lower  a  boat,  Mr.  Ga- 
briel, and  lend  a  hand.     It  may  be  needed." 

In  a  few  minutes  Gabriel  was  heading  after 
the  mate's  boat.  Neither  boat  hoisted  sail.  With 
four  men  at  the  sweeps,  it  was  as  much  as  the 
boats  could  do  to  gain  on  the  brute.  If  the  bear 
was  not  making  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  I'm  no 
judge. 

Mr.  Winchester  kept  pegging  away,  his  bul- 
lets knocking  up  water  all  around  the  animal. 
One  ball  struck  the  bear  in  the  back.  That  de- 
cided the  animal  to  change  its  tactics.  It  quit 
running  away  and  turned  and  made  directly  for 
its  enemies. 

"  Avast  rowing,"  sang  out  the  mate. 

The  men  peaked  their  oars,  turned  on  the 
thwarts,  and  had  their  first  chance  to  watch  de- 
velopments, which  came  thick  and  fast.     Rabid 


232     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

ferocity,  blind  fury,  and  deadly  menace  were  in 
every  line  of  that  big  white  head  shooting  across 
the  water  toward  them.  The  boat  sat  stationary 
on  a  dancing  sea.  The  mate's  rifle  cracked  re- 
peatedly. The  bullets  peppered  the  sea,  sending 
up  little  spurts  of  water  all  about  the  bear.  But 
the  beast  did  not  notice  them,  never  tried  to 
dodge,  never  swerved  aside — just  kept  rushing 
for  the  boat  with  the  directness  of  an  arrow. 

It  was  a  time  of  keen  excitement  for  the  men 
in  the  boat.  They  kept  glancing  with  an  "  Oh, 
that  Bliicher  or  night  would  come  "  expression 
toward  Gabriel's  boat,  which  was  doing  all  that 
oars  could  do  to  get  into  the  fray,  Big  Foot 
Louis  standing  all  the  while  in  the  bow  with 
harpoon  ready.  The  bobbing  of  his  boat  dis- 
concerted the  mate's  aim.  Though  he  was  a 
crack  shot,  as  he  had  often  proved  among  the 
okchugs,  I  never  saw  him  shoot  so  badly.  But 
he  kept  banging  away,  and  when  the  bear  was 
within  fifteen  or  twenty  yards  he  got  home  a 
ball  in  its  shoulder.  The  beast  plunged  into  the 
air,  snarling  and  clawing  at  the  sea,  then  rushed 
again    for    the    boat    like    a    white    streak.     It 


BEARS    FOR    A    CHANGE        23J3 

rammed  into  the  boat  bows-on,  stuck  one  mighty 
paw  over  the  gunwale,  and  with  a  snarling  roar 
and  a  frothing  snap  of  glistening  fangs,  leaped 
up  and  tried  to  climb  aboard. 

Just  at  this  critical  instant  Gabriel's  boat 
came  into  action  with  a  port  helm.  Louis  drove 
a  harpoon  into  the  beast  behind  the  shoulder- 
drove  it  up  to  the  haft,  so  that  the  spear-head 
burst  out  on  the  other  side.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  mate  stuck  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  almost 
down  the  bear's  throat  and  fired.  The  great 
brute  fell  back  into  the  water,  clawed  and 
plunged  and  roared  and  clashed  its  teeth  and 
so,  in  a  whirlwind  of  impotent  fury,  died. 

For  a  moment  it  lay  limp  and  still  among  the 
lapping  waves,  then  slowly  began  to  sink.  But 
Louis  held  it  up  with  the  harpoon  line  and  the 
animal  was  towed  back  to  the  brig.  It  measured 
over  seven  feet  in  length  and  weighed  1,700 
pounds — a  powerful,  gaunt  old  giant,  every  inch 
bone  and  sinew.  Mr.  Winchester  retrieved  the 
other  bear  from  the  ice  floe.  It  was  consider- 
ably smaller.  The  pelts  were  stripped  off  and 
the  carcasses  thrown  overboard.     The  skins  were 


234     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

in  good  condition,  despite  the  earliness  of  the 
season.  They  were  stretched  on  frames  fash- 
ioned by  the  cooper,  and  tanned. 

A  week  or  so  later  we  sighted  a  lone  bear  on 
an  ice  floe  making  a  meal  off  a  seal  it  had  killed. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  one  had  to  look 
twice  before  being  able  to  make  out  its  white 
body  against  the  background  of  snow-covered 
ice.  When  the  brig  sailed  within  seventy-five 
yards  the  bear  raised  its  head  for  a  moment,  took 
a  squint  at  the  vessel,  didn't  seem  interested,  and 
went  on  eating. 

Resting  his  rifle  on  the  bulwarks  and  taking 
careful  aim,  Mr.  Winchester  opened  fire.  The 
pattering  of  the  bullets  on  the  ice  seemed  to 
puzzle  the  bear.  As  it  heard  the  missiles  sing 
and  saw  the  snow  spurt  up,  it  left  the  seal  and 
began  walking  all  about  the  floe  on  an  investi- 
gation. Finally  it  reared  on  its  hind  legs  to  its 
full  height.  While  in  this  upright  position,  a 
bullet  struck  it  and  turned  it  a  sudden  twisting 
somersault.  Its  placid  mood  was  instantly  suc- 
ceeded by  one  of  ferocious  anger.  It  looked 
toward  the  vessel  and  roared  savagely.    Still  the 


BEARS   FOR    A    CHANGE       235 

bullets  fell  about  it,  and  now  alive  to  its  danger, 
it  plunged  into  the  sea  and  struck  out  for  the 
polar  pack  a  mile  distant. 

Mr.  Winchester  again  lowered,  with  Gabriel's 
boat  to  back  him  up.  The  chase  was  short  and 
swift.  The  boats  began  to  overhaul  the  bear  as 
it  approached  the  ice,  the  mate's  bullets  splash- 
ing all  about  the  animal,  but  doing  no  damage. 
As  the  brute  was  hauling  itself  upon  the  ice,  a 
ball  crashed  into  its  back,  breaking  its  spine.  It 
fell  back  into  the  water  and  expired  in  a  furious 
flurry.  A  running  bowline  having  been  slipped 
over  its  neck,  it  was  towed  back  to  the  brig. 

Not  long  afterward,  while  we  were  cruising  in 
open  water,  a  polar  bear  swam  across  the  brig's 
stern.  There  was  neither  ice  nor  land  in  sight. 
Figuring  the  ship's  deck  as  the  center  of  a  circle 
of  vision  about  ten  miles  in  diameter,  the  bear 
already  had  swum  five  miles,  and  probably  quite 
a  bit  more,  and  it  is  certain  he  had  an  equal 
distance  to  go  before  finding  any  ice  on  which 
to  rest.  It  probably  had  drifted  south  on  an  ice 
pan  and  was  bound  back  for  its  home  on  the 
polar  pack. 


236     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

The  bear  made  too  tempting  a  target  for  the 
mate  to  resist,  and  he  brought  out  his  rifle  and, 
kneeling  on  the  quarter-deck,  he  took  steady  aim 
and  fired.  His  bullet  struck  about  two  feet  be- 
hind the  animal.  He  aimed  again,  but  changed 
his  mind  and  lowered  his  gun. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that  fellow's  making  too  fine 
a  swim.     I'll  let  him  go." 

Cleaving  the  water  with  a  powerful  stroke, 
the  bear  went  streaking  out  of  sight  over  the 
horizon.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  before  its  swim 
ended  the  animal  covered  fifteen  miles  at  the 
lowest  estimate,  and  possibly  a  much  greater 
distance. 

One  moonlight  night  a  little  later,  while  we 
were  traveling  under  short  sail  with  considerable 
ice  about,  a  whale  blew  a  short  distance  to  wind- 
ward. I  was  at  the  wheel  and  Mr.  Landers  was 
standing  near  me.  "  Blow!  "  breathed  Mr.  Lan- 
ders softly.  Suddenly  the  whale  breached — we 
could  hear  it  distinctly  as  it  shot  up  from  a 
narrow  channel  between  ice  floes.  '  There  she 
breaches !  "  said  Mr.  Landers  in  the  same  low 
voice,  with  no  particular  concern.     We  thought 


BEARS   FOR   A    CHANGE       237 

the  big  creature  merely  was  enjoying  a  moon- 
light frolic.  It  breached  again.  This  time  its 
body  crashed  upon  a  strip  of  ice  and  flopped 
and  floundered  for  a  moment  before  sliding  back 
into  the  water.  Then  it  breached  half  a  dozen 
times  more  in  rapid  succession.  I  had  never 
seen  a  whale  breach  more  than  once  at  a  time, 
even  when  wounded.  Mr.  Landers  became  in- 
terested. "  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with 
that  whale,"  he  said. 

To  our  surprise,  two  other  black  bodies  began 
to  flash  up  into  the  moonlight  about  the  whale. 
Every  time  the  whale  breached,  they  breached, 
too.  They  were  of  huge  size,  but  nothing  like 
so  large  as  the  whale. 

'Killers!"  cried  Mr.  Landers  excitedly. 

Then  we  knew  the  whale  was  not  playing,  but 
fighting  for  its  life.  It  leaped  above  the  sur- 
face to  a  lesser  and  lesser  height  each  time. 
Plainly  it  was  tiring  fast.  When  it  breached 
the  last  time  only  its  head  and  a  small  portion 
of  its  body  rose  into  the  air  and  both  killers 
seemed  to  be  hanging  with  a  bulldog  grip  upon 
its  lower  jaw.     What  the  outcome  of  that  des- 


238     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

perate  battle  was  we  did  not  see.  The  whale 
and  its  savage  assailants  moved  off  out  of  eye- 
shot. But  for  some  time  after  we  had  lost  sight 
of  the  whale  we  could  hear  its  labored  and  ster- 
torous breathing  and  its  heavy  splashes  as  it 
attempted  to  breach. 

Killers,  Mr.  Landers  told  me,  are  themselves 
a  species  of  rapacious,  carnivorous  whale,  whose 
upper  and  lower  jaws  are  armed  with  sharp, 
saw-like  teeth.  They  are  otherwise  known  as  the 
Orca  gladiator,  and  tiger-hearted  gladiators  of 
the  sea  they  are.  The  great,  clumsy  bowhead 
with  no  teeth  with  which  to  defend  itself,  whose 
only  weapons  are  its  flukes  and  its  fins,  is  no 
match  for  them.  They  attack  the  great  creature 
whenever  they  encounter  it,  and  when  it  has 
exhausted  itself  in  its  efforts  to  escape,  they 
tear  open  its  jaws  and  feast  upon  its  tongue. 
The  killer  whale  never  hunts  alone.  It  pursues 
its  titanic  quarry  in  couples  and  trios,  and  some- 
times in  veritable  wolf-like  packs  of  half  a  dozen. 
There  is  usually  no  hope  for  the  bowhead  that 
these  relentless  creatures  mark  for  their  prey. 


CHAPTER   XXII 


THE   STRANDED   WHALE 


OUR  fourth  and  last  whale  gave  us  quite  a 
bit  of  trouble.  We  sighted  this  fellow 
spouting  in  a  choppy  sea  among  ice  is- 
lands two  or  three  miles  off  the  edges  of  the 
polar  pack.  All  three  boats  lowered  for  it.  It 
was  traveling  slowly  in  the  same  direction  the 
brig  was  sailing  and  about  two  miles  from  the 
vessel.  It  took  the  boats  some  time  to  work  to 
close  quarters.  When  the  mate's  boat  was  al- 
most within  striking  distance,  the  whale  went 
under.  As  frightened  whales  usually  run 
against  the  wind,  Mr.  Winchester  steered  to 
windward.  But  the  whale  had  not  been  fright- 
ened; it  had  not  seen  the  boats.  Consequently 
it  failed  to  head  into  the  wind,  but  did  the  un- 
expected by  coming  up  to  leeward,  blowing  with 

evident  unconcern.     This  brought  it  nearest  to 

239 


240     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

Gabriel,  who  went  after  it  in  a  flash.  After  a 
sharp,  swift  run  down  the  wind,  we  struck  the 
whale,  which  dived  and  went  racing  under  water 
for  the  ice  pack.  The  dizzy  rate  at  which  it 
took  out  our  line  might  have  led  us  to  believe 
it  was  not  hurt,  but  we  knew  it  was  seriously 
wounded  by  the  fountains  of  blood  it  sent  up 
whenever  it  came  to  the  surface. 

The  captain's  signals  from  the  brig,  by  this 
time,  had  headed  the  other  boats  in  our  direc- 
tion, but  they  could  not  reach  us  in  time  to  be 
of  any  assistance.  The  whale  ran  away  with 
our  tub  of  line  and  we  sat  still  and  watched  the 
red  fountains  that  marked  its  course  as  it  headed 
for  the  big  ice  to  the  north. 

Directly  in  the  whale's  course  lay  an  ice  floe 
about  half  a  mile  long,  a  few  hundred  yards  wide 
and  rising  from  five  to  ten  feet  above  the  surface. 
We  naturally  supposed  the  creature  would  dive 
under  this  and  keep  going  for  the  main  pack. 
To  our  surprise  we  soon  saw  fountain  after  foun- 
tain, red  with  blood,  shooting  up  from  the  cen- 
ter of  the  floe.  The  whale  evidently  was  too 
badly   injured    to    continue   its   flight   and    had 


THE    STRANDED    WHALE      241 

sought  refuge  beneath  this  strip*  of  drifting  ice. 
Men  were  hurriedly  landed  from  all  the  boats 
with  harpoons  and  shoulder  guns,  leaving  enough 
sailors  on  the  thwarts  to  fend  the  boats  clear  of 
the  ice.    The  landing  parties  clambered  over  the 
broken  and  tumbled  ice,  dragging  the  harpoon 
lines.     We  found  the  whale  half  exposed  in  a 
narrow  opening  in  the  center  of  the  floe,  all  the 
ice  about  it  red  with  clotted  blood.    Long  John 
and  Little  Johnny  threw  two  harpoons  each  into 
the  big  body  and  Big  Foot  Louis  threw  his  re- 
maining one.    As  a  result  of  this  bombardment, 
five  tonite  bombs  exploded  in  the  whale,  which, 
with  the  harpoons  sticking  all  over  its  back,  sug- 
gested a  baited  bull  in  a  Spanish  bullring  hung 
with    the    darts    of   the   banderilleros.     But  the 
great  animal  kept  on  breathing  blood  and  would 
not  die.     After  all  the  harpoons  had  been  ex- 
hausted, shoulder  guns  were  brought  into  play. 
In  all,  twelve  tonite  bombs  were  fired  into  it 
before  the  monster  gave  a  mighty  shiver  and 
lay  still. 

But  with  the  whale  dead,  we  still  had  a  big 
problem  on  our  hands.     In  some  way  the  giant 


242     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

bulk  had  to  be  hauled  out  of  the  Ice.  This  was 
a  difficult  matter  even  with  plenty  of  time  in 
which  to  do  it.  Night  was  coming  on  and  it  was 
the  brig's  custom  in  the  hours  of  darkness  to 
sail  far  away  from  the  great  ice  pack  with  its 
edging  of  floating  bergs  and  floes  in  order  to 
avoid  possible  accident  and  to  sail  back  to  the 
whaling  grounds  on  the  morrow.  This  Captain 
Shorey  prepared  to  do  now.  As  a  solution  of  the 
dilemma,  an  empty  bread  cask  or  hogshead  was 
brought  on  deck  and  the  name  of  the  brig  was 
seared  in  its  staves  with  a  hot  iron  in  several 
places.  This  cask  was  towed  to  the  floe,  hauled 
up  on  the  edge  of  the  ice,  and  the  long  line  of 
one  of  the  harpoons  sticking  in  the  whale  was 
made  fast  to  it  by  means  of  staples.  Thus  the 
cask  marked  the  floe  in  which  the  whale  was 
lying. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  the  brig  went 
about,  said  good-night  to  the  whale,  and  headed 
for  open  water  to  the  south.  We  sailed  away 
before  a  stiff  breeze  and  soon  cask  and  floe  and 
the  great  white  continent  beyond  had  faded 
from  view.    When  morning  broke  we  were  bowl- 


THE   STRANDED    WHALE      243 

ing  along  under  light  sail  in  a  choppy  sea  with 
nothing  but  water  to  be  seen  in  any  direction. 
The  great  ice  cap  was  somewhere  out  of  sight 
over  the  world's  northern  rim.  Not  a  floe,  a 
berg,  or  the  smallest  white  chunk  of  ice  floated 
anywhere  in  the  purple  sphere  of  sea  ringed  by 
the  wide  horizon.  Being  a  green  hand,  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Good-bye,  Mr.  Whale,  we  certainly 
have  seen  the  last  we'll  ever  see  of  you." 

Let  me  make  the  situation  perfectly  clear. 
Our  whale  was  drifting  somewhere  about  the 
Arctic  Ocean  embedded  in  an  ice  floe  scarcely 
to  be  distinguished  from  a  thousand  other  floes 
except  by  a  cask  upon  its  margin  which  at  a 
distance  of  a  few  miles  would  hardly  be  visible 
through  strong  marine  glasses.  The  floe,  re- 
member, was  not  a  stationary  object  whose  lon- 
gitude and  latitude  could  be  reckoned  certainly, 
but  was  being  tossed  about  by  the  sea  and  driven 
by  the  winds  and  ocean  currents.  The  brig,  on 
the  other  hand,  had  been  sailing  on  the  wind 
without  a  set  course.  It  had  been  tacking  and 
wearing  from  time  to  time.  It,  too,  had  felt  the 
compulsion    of    the    waves    and    currents.      So 


244     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

throughout  the  night  the  brig  had  sailed  at  ran- 
dom and  twenty  miles  or  so  away  the  whale  in 
its  floe  had  been  drifting  at  random.  Now  how 
were  we  going  to  find  our  whale  again?  This 
struck  me  that  morning  on  the  open  sea  with 
neither  whale  nor  ice  in  sight,  as  a  problem  cer- 
tainly very  nice,  if  not  hopeless.  The  way  it  was 
solved  was  as  pretty  a  feat  of  navigation  as  I 
ever  saw. 

When  Captain  Shorey  came  on  deck  after 
breakfast,  he  "  shot  the  sun  "  through  his  sex- 
tant and  went  below  to  make  his  calculations. 
In  a  little  while  he  came  on  deck  again  and 
stepped  to  the  man  at  the  wheel.  The  helmsman 
was  steering  full  and  by. 

"  How  do  you  head? "  asked  Captain  Shorey. 

"  Northwest, "  answered  the  sailor. 

"  Keep  her  northwest  by  west  half  west,"  said 
the  captain. 

For  several  hours  the  brig  sailed  steadily  on 
this  course.  Along  about  9  o'clock,  we  saw  the 
peculiar,  cold,  light  look  above  the  skv  line  ahead 
which  meant  ice  and  which  sailors  call  an  "  ice 
horizon,"  to  be  distinguished  at  a  glance  from 


THE    STRANDED    WHALE      245 

a  water  horizon,  which  is  dark.  A  little  later, 
we  sighted  the  white  loom  of  the  great  ice  con- 
tinent. Later  still,  we  picked  up  the  bergs, 
floes,  islands,  and  chunks  of  ice  which  drift  for- 
ever along  its  edge. 

The  brig  kept  on  its  course.  A  floe  of  ice, 
looking  at  a  distance  like  a  long,  narrow  ribbon, 
lay  ahead  of  us,  apparently  directly  across  our 
path.  As  we  drew  nearer,  we  began  to  make 
out  dimly  a  certain  dark  speck  upon  the  edge  of 
the  ice.  This  speck  gradually  assumed  definite- 
ness.  It  was  our  cask  and  we  were  headed 
straight  for  it.  To  a  landlubber  unacquainted 
with  the  mysteries  of  navigation,  this  incident 
may  seem  almost  unbelievable,  but  upon  my 
honest  word,  it  is  true  to  the  last  detail. 

After  the  brig  had  been  laid  aback  near  the 
ice,  a  boat  was  lowered  and  a  hole  was  cut  in 
the  bow  of  the  whale's  head.  A  cable  was 
passed  through  this  and  the  other  end  was  made 
fast  aboard  the  ship.  Then  under  light  sail,  the 
brig  set  about  the  work  of  pulling  the  whale  out 
of  the  ice.  The  light  breeze  fell  away  and  the 
three    boats  were  strung  out  ahead  with  haw- 


246     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

sers  and  lent  assistance  with  the  oars.  It  was 
slow  work.  But  when  the  breeze  freshened,  the 
ice  began  gradually  to  give,  then  to  open  up, 
and  finally  the  whale  was  hauled  clear  and 
drawn  alongside  for  the  cutting  in. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


AND   SO — HOME 


IT  was  on  October  tenth  that  we  broke  out 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  at  our  main  gaff  and 
squared  our  yards  for  home.  Everybody 
cheered  as  the  flag  went  fluttering  up,  for  every- 
body was  glad  that  the  end  of  the  long,  hard 
voyage  was  in  sight.  Behring  Straits  which 
when  we  were  about  to  enter  the  Arctic  Ocean — 
sea  of  tragedy  and  graveyard  of  so  many  brave 
men  and  tall  ships — had  looked  like  the  portals 
of  inferno,  now  when  we  were  homeward  bound 
seemed  like  the  gateway  to  the  Happy  Isles. 

The  four  whales  we  had  captured  on  the  voy- 
age had  averaged  about  1,800  pounds  of  baleen, 
which  that  year  was  quoted  at  $0.50  a  pound. 
We  had  tried  out  all  our  whales  except  the  last 
one  and  our  casks  were  filled  with  oil.  Our  en- 
tire catch  was  worth  over  $50,000.  The  officers 
and  boatsteerers  made  a   pretty  penny  out  of 

247 


248     A    YEAH    WITH    A    WHALER 

the  voyage.  The  captain,  I  was  told,  had 
shipped  on  a  lay  of  one-sixth — and  got  it.  The 
sailors  had  shipped  on  the  190th  lay — and  didn't 
get  it.  That  was  the  difference.  At  San  Fran- 
cisco, the  forecastle  hands  were  paid  off  with  the 
"  big  iron  dollar  "  of  whaling  tradition. 

The  homeward  voyage  was  not  a  time  of  idle- 
ness. We  were  kept  busy  a  large  part  of  the 
time  cleaning  the  bone  of  our  last  three  whales 
— the  bone  from  our  first  whale  had  been  shipped 
to  San  Francisco  from  Unalaska.  As  we  had 
at  first  stowed  it  away,  the  baleen  was  in  bunches 
of  ten  or  a  dozen  slabs  held  together  at  the  roots 
by  "  white  horse,"  which  is  the  whaler  name  for 
the  gums  of  the  whale.  These  bunches  were  now 
brought  up  on  deck  and  each  slab  of  baleen  was 
cut  out  of  the  gums  separately  and  washed  and 
scoured  with  cocoanut  rind  procured  for  the 
purpose  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands.  Then  the 
slabs  were  dried  and  polished  until  they  shone 
like  gun  metal,  tied  into  bales,  and  stowed  under 
hatches  once  more. 

A  little  south  of  King's  Island  in  the  northern 
end  of  "Behring  Sea,  Captain  Shorey  set  a  course 


AND    SO— HOME  249 

for  Unimak  Pass.  We  ran  down  Behring  Sea 
with  a  gale  of  wind  sweeping  us  before  it  and 
great  billows  bearing  us  along.  When  we  bore 
up  for  the  dangerous  passage  which  had  given 
us  such  a  scare  in  the  spring,  we  were  headed 
straight  for  it,  and  we  went  through  into  the  Pa- 
cific without  pulling  a  rope.  It  was  another  re- 
markable example  of  the  navigating  skill  of 
whaling  captains.  We  had  aimed  at  Unimak 
Pass  when  700  miles  away  and  had  scored  a 
bull's-eye. 

Again  the  "  roaring  forties  "  lived  up  to  their 
name  and  buffeted  us  with  gale  and  storm.  The 
first  land  we  sighted  after  leaving  the  Fox 
Islands  was  the  wooded  hills  of  northern  Cali- 
fornia. I  shall  never  forget  how  beautiful  those 
hills  appeared  and  what  a  welcome  they  seemed 
to  hold  out.  They  were  my  own  country  again, 
the  United  States — home.  My  eyes  grew  misty 
as  T  gazed  at  them  and  T  felt  much  as  a  small 
boy  might  feel  who.  after  long  absence,  sees  his 
mother's  arms  open  to  him.  The  tug  that  picked 
us  up  outside  of  Golden  Gate  at  sundown  one 
dav  seemed  like  a  long  lost  friend.     It  was  loner 


250     A    YEAR    WITH   A    WHALER 

after  darkness  had  fallen,  that  it  towed  us  into 
San  Francisco  harbor,  past  the  darkly  frowning 
Presidio  and  the  twinkling  lights  of  Telegraph 
Hill,  to  an  anchorage  abreast  the  city,  brilliantly 
lighted  and  glowing  like  fairyland.  I  never  in 
all  my  life  heard  sweeter  music  than  the  rattle 
and  clank  of  the  anchor  chain  as  the  great  an- 
chor plunged  into  the  bay  and  sank  to  its  grip 
in  good  American  soil  once  more. 

My  whaling  voyage  was  over.  It  was  an  ad- 
venture out  of  the  ordinary,  an  experience  in- 
forming, interesting,  health-giving,  and  perhaps 
worth  while.  I  have  never  regretted  it.  But  I 
wouldn't  do  it  again  for  ten  thousand  dollars. 


THE     END 


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